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HOME  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
OF  MODERN  KNOWLEDGE 

No.  70 


Editors: 

The  Rt.  Hon.  H.  A.  L.  FISHER, 
M.A.,  F.B.A. 

Prof.  GILBERT  MURRAY,  Litt.D., 
LL.D.,  F.B.A. 

Prof.  Sir  J.  ARTHUR  THOMSON, 
M.A. 

Prof.  WILLIAM  T.  BREWSTER, 
M.A. 


A complete  classified  list  of  the  volumes  of  The 
Home  University  Library  already  published  will 
be  found  at  the  back  of  this  book. 


ANCIENT  ART  AND 
RITUAL 


BY 

JANE  ELLEN  HARRISON 

LL.D.,  D.Litt. 

AUTHOR  OF  “PRIMITIVE  ATHENS,”  “RELIGION  OF 
ANCIENT  GREECE,”  “ PROLEGOMENA  TO^THE 
STUDY  OF  GREEK  RELIGION,”  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

LONDON 

THORNTON  BUTTERWORTH  LTD. 


'hi! 

H 3I1A 


Copyright,  1913, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 


It  may  be  well  at  the  outset  to  say  clearly  what 
is  the  aim  of  the  present  volume.  The  title  is 
Ancient  Art  and  Ritual,  but  the  reader  will  find 
in  it  no  general  summary  or  even  outline  of  the 
facts  of  either  ancient  art  or  ancient  ritual.  These 
facts  are  easily  accessible  in  handbooks.  The 
point  of  my  title  and  the  real  gist  of  my  argument 
lie  perhaps  in  the  word  “a/id”  — that  is,  in  the 
intimate  connection  which  I have  tried  to  show 
i-exists  between  ritual  and  art.  This  connection 
has,  I believe,  an  important  bearing  on  questions 
vital  to-day,  as,  for  example,  the  question  of  the 
place  of  art  in  our  modern  civilization,  its  relation 
to  and  its  diffei’ence  from  religion  and  morality; 
in  a word,  on  the  whole  enquiry  as  to  w’hat  the 
nature  of  art  is  and  how  it  can  help  or  hinder 
spiritual  life. 

I have  taken  Greek  diajna  as  a typical  instance, 
because  in  it  we  have  the  clear  historical  case  of 
a great  art,  which  arose  out  of  a very  primitive 
and  almost  worldwide  ritual.  The  rise  of  the 
Indian  drama,  or  the  mediaeval  and  from  it  the 


14836 


VI 


PREFATORY  NOTE 


modern  stage,  would  have  told  us  the  same  tale 
and  served  the  like  purpose.  But  Greece  is  nearer 
to  us  to-day  than  either  India  or  the  Middle 
Ages, 


Greece  and  the  Greek  drama  remind  me  that 
I should  like  to  offer  my  thanks  to  Professor 
Gilbert  Murray,  for  help  and  criticism  which  has 
far  outrun  the  limits  of  editorial  duty. 

J.  E.  H. 


Nemnham  College, 

Cambridge,  June,  1913. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I Art  anb  Ritual 9 

II  Primitive  Ritual:  Pantomimic  Dances  ...  29 

III  Periodic  Ceremonies:  The  Spring  Festival  . 49 

IV  The  Primitive  Spring  Dance  or  Dithyramb, 

IN  Greece 75 

V  The  Transition  from  Ritual  to  Art  : The 

Dromenon  and  the  Drama 119 

VI  Greek  Sculpture  : The  Panathenaic  Frieze 

AND  THE  Apollo  Belvedere 170 

VII  Ritual,  Art,  and  Life 204 

Bibliography' 253 

Index 255 


14836 


ANCIENT  AET  AND  EITUAL 


CHAPTER  I 

ART  AND  RITUAL 

The  title  of  this  book  may  strike  the  reader 
as  strange  and  even  dissonant.  What  have 
art  and  ritual  to  do  together.?  The  ritualist 
is,  to  the  modern  mind,  a man  concerned 
perhaps  unduly  with  fixed  forms  and  cere- 
monies, with  carrying  out  the  rigidly  pre- 
scribed ordinances  of  a church  or  sect.  The 
artist,  on  the  other  hand,  we  think  of  as  free 
in  thought  and  untrammelled  by  convention 
in  practice;  his  tendency  is  towards  licence. 
Art  and  ritual,  it  is  quite  true,  have  diverged 
to-day;  but  the  title  of  this  book  is  chosen 
advisedly.  Its  object  is  to  show  that  these 
two  divergent  developments  have  a common 
root,  and  that  neither  can  be  understood 
without  the  other.  ~ It  is  at  the  outset  one 
9 


10  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


and  the  same  impulse  that  sends  a man  to 
church  and  to  the  theatre. 

Such  a statement  may  sound  to-day  para- 
doxical, even  irreverent.  But  to  the  Greek 
of  the  sixth,  fifth,  and  even  fourth  century 
B.C.,  it  would  have  been  a simple  truism.  We 
shall  see  this  best  by  following  an  Athenian 
to  his  theatre,  on  the  day  of  the  great  Spring 
Festival  of  Dionysos. 

Passing  through  the  entrance-gate  to  the 
theatre  on  the  south  side  of  the  Acropolis, 
our  Athenian  citizen  will  find  himself  at  once 
on  holy  ground.  He  is  within  a temenos  or 
precinct,  a place  “cut  off”  from  the  common 
land  and  dedicated  to  a god.  He  will  pass  to 
the  left  (Fig.  2,  p.  144)  two  temples  standing 
near  to  each  other,  one  of  earlier,  the  other  of 
later  date,  for  a temple,  once  built,  was  so 
sacred  that  it  would  only  be  reluctantly 
destroyed.  As  he  enters  the  actual  theatre 
he  will  pay  nothing  for  his  seat;  his  attend- 
ance is  an  act  of  worship,  and  from  the  social 
point  of  view  obligatory;  the  entrance  fee  is 
therefore  paid  for  him  by  the  State. 

The  theatre  is  open  to  all  Athenian  citizens, 
but  the  ordinary  man  will  not  venture  to 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


11 


seat  himself  in  the  front  row.  In  the  front 
row,  and  that  only,  the  seats  have  backs, 
and  the  central  seat  of  this  row  is  an  arm- 
chair; the  whole  of  the  front  row  is  perma- 
nently reserved,  not  for  individual  rich  men 
who  can  afford  to  hire  “boxes,”  but  for 
certain  State  officials,  and  these  officials  are 
all  priests.  On  each  seat  the  name  of  the 
owner  is  inscribed;  the  central  seat  is  “of 
the  priest  of  Dionysos  Eleuthereus,”  the  god 
of  the  precinct.  Near  him  is  the  seat  “of 
the  priest  of  Apollo  the  Laurel-Bearer,”  and 
again  “of  the  priest  of  Asklepios,”  and  “of 
the  priest  of  Olympian  Zeus,”  and  so  on 
round  the  whole  front  semicircle.  It  is  as 
though  at  His  Majesty’s  the  front  row  of 
stalls  was  occupied  by  the  whole  bench  of 
bishops,  with  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
enthroned  in  the  central  stall. 

The  theatre  at  Athens  is  not  open  night 
by  night,  nor  even  day  by  day.  Dramatic 
performances  take  place  only,  at  certain  high 
festivals  of  Dionysos  in  winter  and  spring. 
It  is,  again,  as  though  the  modern  theatre  was 
open  only  at  the  festivals  of  the  Epiphany 
and  of  Easter.  Our  modern,  at  least  our 
Protestant,  custom  is  in  direct  contrast.  We 


12  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


tend  on  great  religious  festivals  rather  to 
close  than  to  open  our  theatres.  Another 
point  of  contrast  is  in  the  time  allotted  to 
the  performance.  We  give  to  the  theatre 
our  after-dinner  hours,  when  work  is  done,  or 
at  best  a couple  of  hours  in  the  afternoon. 
The  theatre  is  for  us  a recreation.  The  Greek 
theatre  opened  at  sunrise,  and  the  whole 
day  was  consecrated  to  high  and  strenuous 
religious  attention.  During  the  five  or  six 
days  of  the  great  Dionysia,  the  whole  city 
was  in  a state  of  unwonted  sanctity,  under 
a taboo.  To  distrain  a debtor  was  illegal; 
any  personal  assault,  however  trifling,  was 
sacrilege. 

Most  impressive  and  convincing  of  all  is 
the  ceremony  that  took  place  on  the  eve 
of  the  performance.  By  torchlight,  accom- 
panied by  a great  procession,  the  image 
of  the  god  Dionysos  himself  was  brought  to 
the  theatre  and  placed  in  the  orchestra. 
Moreover,  he  came  not  only  in  human  but 
in  animal  form.  Chosen  young  men  of  the 
Athenians  in  the  flower  of  their  youth — 
epheboi — escorted  to  the  precinct  a splendid 
bull.  It  was  expressly  ordained  that  the 
bull  should  be  “worthy  of  the  god”;  he  was. 


AET  AND  RITUAL 


13 


in  fact,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  the  primitive 
incarnation  of  the  god.  It  is,  again,  as  though 
in  our  modern  theatre  there  stood,  “sanctify- 
ing all  things  to  our  use  and  us  to  His  service,” 
the  human  figure  of  the  Saviour,  and  beside 
him  the  Paschal  Lamb. 

But  now  we  come  to  a strange  thing.  A 
god  presides  over  the  theatre,  to  go  to  the 
theatre  is  an  act  of  worship  to  the  god  Dio- 
nysos, and  yet,  when  the  play  begins,  three 
times  out  of  four  of  Dionysos  we  hear  nothing. 
We  see,  it  may  be,  Agamemnon  returning 
from  Troy,  Clytemnestra  waiting  to  slay  him, 
the  vengeance  of  Orestes,  the  love  of  Phsedra 
for  Hippolytos,  the  hate  of  Medea  and  the 
slaying  of  her  children : stories  beautiful, 

tragic,  morally  instructive  it  may  be,  but 
scarcely,  we  feel,  religious.  The  orthodox 
Greeks  themselves  sometimes  complained  that 
in  the  plays  enacted  before  them  there  was 
“nothing  to  do  with  Dionyso§.” 

If  drama  be  at  the  outset  divine,  with  its 
roots  in  ritual,  why  does  it  issue  in  an  art 
profoundly  solemn,  tragic,  yet  purely  human? 
The  actors  wear  ritual  vestments  like  those 
of  the  celebrants  at  the  Eleusinian  mysteries. 


14  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Why,  then,  do  we  find  them,  not  executing  a 
religious  service  or  even  a drama  of  gods  and 
goddesses,  but  rather  impersonating  mere 
Homeric  heroes  and  heroines?  Greek  drama 
which  seemed  at  first  to  give  us  our  clue,  to 
show  us  a real  link  between  ritual  and  art, 
breaks  down,  betrays  us,  it  would  seem,  just 
at  the  crucial  moment,  and  leaves  us  with  our 
problem  on  our  hands. 

Had  we  only  Greek  ritual  and  art  we  might 
well  despair.  The  Greeks  are  a people  of 
such  swift  constructive  imagination  that 
they  almost  always  obscure  any  problem  of 
origins.  So  fair  and  magical  are  their  cloud- 
capp’d  towers  that  they  distract  our  minds 
from  the  task  of  digging  for  foundations. 
There  is  scarcely  a problem  in  the  origins  of 
Greek  mythology  and  religion  that  has  been 
solved  within  the  domain  of  Greek  thinking 
only.  Ritual  with  them  was,  in  the  case  of 
drama,  so  swiftly  and  completely  transmuted 
into  art  that,  h?,d  we  had  Greek  material  only 
to  hand,  we  might  never  have  marked  the 
transition.  Happily,  however,  we  are  not 
confined  within  the  Greek  paradise.  Wider 
fields  are  open  to  us;  our  subject  is  not  only 
Greek,  but  ancient  art  and  ritual.  We  can 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


15 


turn  at  once  to  the  Egyptians,  a people 
slower-witted  than  the  Greeks,  and  watch 
their  sluggish  but  more  instructive  opera- 
tions. To  one  who  is  studying  the  develop- 
ment of  the  human  mind  the  average  or  even 
stupid  child  is  often  more  illuminating  than 
the  abnormally  brilliant.  Greece  is  often  too 
near  to  us,  too  advanced,  too  modern,  to  be 
for  comparative  purposes  instructive. 

Of  all  Egyptian,  perhaps  of  all  ancient 
deities,  no  god  has  lived  so  long  or  had  so  wide 
and  deep  an  influence  as  Osiris.  He  stands 
as  the  prototype  of  the  great  class  of  resur- 
rection-gods who  die  that  they  may  live 
again.  His  sufferings,  his  death,  and  his 
resurrection  were  enacted  year  by  year  in 
a great  mystery-play  at  Abydos.  In  that 
mystery-play  was  set  forth,  first,  what  the 
Greeks  call  his  agon,  his  contest  with  his 
enemy  Set;  then  his  'pathos,  his  suffering,  or 
downfall  and  defeat,  his  wounding,  his  death, 
and  his  burial;  finally,  his  resurrection  and 
“recognition,”  his  anagnorisis  either  as  him- 
self or  as  his  only  begotten  son  Horus.  Now 
the  meaning  of  this  thrice-told'  tale  we  shall 
consider  later;  for  the  moment  we  are  con- 


16  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


cerned  only  with  the  fact  that  it  is  set  forth 
both  in  art  and  ritual. 

At  the  festival  of  Osiris  small  images  of  the 
god  were  made  of  sand  and  vegetable  earth, 
his  cheek  bones  were  painted  green  and  his 
face  yellow.  The  images  were  cast  in  a 
mould  of  pure  gold,  representing  the  god  as  a 
mummy.  After  sunset  on  the  24th  day  of  the 
month,  Choiak,  the  eflSgy  of  Osiris  was  laid  in 
a grave  and  the  image  of  the  previous  year 
was  removed.  The  intent  of  all  this  was 
made  transparently  clear  by  other  rites.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  festival  there  was  a 
ceremony  of  ploughing  and  sowing.  One  end 
of  the  field  was  sown  with  barley,  the  other 
with  spelt;  another  part  with  flax.  While 
this  was  going  on  the  chief  priest  recited  the 
ritual  of  the  “ sowing  of  the  fields.”  Into  the 
“garden”  of  the  god,  which  seems  to  have 
been  a large  pot,  were  put  sand  and  barley, 
then  fresh  living  water  from  the  inundation 
of  the  Nile  was  poured  out  of  a golden  vase 
over  the  “garden”  and  the  barley  was  al- 
lowed to  grow  up.  It  was  the  symbol  of  the 
resurrection  of  the  god  after  his  burial,  “for 
the  growth  of  the  garden  is  the  growth  of  the 
divine  substance.” 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


17 


The  death  and  resurrection  of  the  gods, 
and  jpari  passu  of  the  life  and  fruits  of  the 
earth,  was  thus  set  forth  in  ritual,  but — and 
this  is  our  immediate  point — it  was  also  set 
forth  in  definite,  unmistakable  art.  In  the 
great  temple  of  Isis  at  Philse  there  is  a cham- 
ber dedicated  to  Osiris.  Here  is  represented 
the  dead  Osiris.  Out  of  his  body  spring  ears 
of  corn,  and  a priest  waters  the  growing  stalk 
from  a pitcher.  The  inscription  to  the  pic- 
ture reads:  This  is  the  form  of  him  whom 
one  may  not  name,  Osiris  of  the  mysteries,  who 
springs  from  the  returning  waters.  It  is  but 
another  presentation  of  the  ritual  of  the 
month  Choiak,  in  which  effigies  of  the  god 
made  of  earth  and  corn  were  buried.  When 
these  effigies  were  taken  up  it  would  be  formd 
that  the  corn  had  sprouted  actually  from  the 
body  of  the  god,  and  this  sprouting  of  the 
grain  would,  as  Dr.  Frazer  says,  be  “hailed 
as  an  omen,  or  rather  as  the  cause  of  the 
growth  of  the  crops.”  ^ 

Even  more  vividly  is  the  resurrection  set 
forth  in  the  bas-reliefs  that  accompany  the 
great  Osiris  inscription  at  Denderah.  Here 
the  god  is  represented  at  first  as  a mummy 
^ Adonis,  Attis,  Osiris,^  p.  324. 


18  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


swathed  and  lying  flat  on  his  bier.  Bit  by 
bit  he  is  seen  raising  himself  up  in  a series 
of  gymnastically  impossible  positions,  till 
at  last  he  rises  from  a bowl — perhaps  his 
“garden” — all  but  erect,  between  the  out- 
spread wings  of  Isis,  while  before  him  a male 
figure  holds  the  crux  ansata,  the  “cross  with 
a handle,”  the  Egyptian  symbol  of  life.  In 
ritual,  the  thing  desired,  i.  e.  the  resurrection, 
is  acted,  in  art  it  is  represented. 

No  one  will  refuse  to  these  bas-reliefs  the 
title  of  art.  In  Egypt,  then,  we  have  clearly 
an  instance — only  one  out  of  many — where 
art  and  ritual  go  hand  in  hand.  Countless 
bas-reliefs  that  decorate  Egyptian  tombs  and 
temples  are  but  ritual  practices  translated 
into  stone.  This,  as  we  shall  later  see,  is  an 
important  step  in  our  argument.  Ancient 
art  and  ritual  are  not  only  closely  connected, 
not  only  do  they  mutually  explain  and 
illustrate  each  other,  but,  as  we  shall  presently 
find,  they  actually  arise  out  of  a common 
human  impulse.  * 

The  god  who  died  and  rose  again  is  not  of 
course  confined  to  Egypt;  he  is  world- wide. 
When  Ezekiel  (viii.  14)  “came  to  the  gate  of 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


19 


the  Lord’s  house  which  was  toward  the 
north”  he  beheld  there  the  “women  weep- 
ing for  Tammuz.”  This  “abomination”  the 
house  of  Judah  had  brought  with  them  from 
Babylon.  Tammuz  is  Dumuzi,  “the  true 
son,”  or  more  fully,  Dumuzi-absu,  “true  son 
of  the  waters.”  He  too,  like  Osiris,  is  a god 
of  the  life  that  springs  from  inundation  and 
that  dies  down  in  the  heat  of  the  summer. 
In  Milton’s  procession  of  false  gods, 

“Thammuz  came  next  behind. 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a summer’s  day.” 

Tammuz  in  Babylon  was  the  young  love  of 
Ishtar.  Each  year  he  died  and  passed  below 
the  earth  to  the  place  of  dust  and  death, 
“the  land  from  which  there  is  no  returniug, 
the  house  of  darkness,  where  dust  lies  on  door 
and  bolt.”  And  the  goddess ^went  after  him, 
and  while  she  was  below,  life  ceased  in  the 
earth,  no  flower  blossomed  and  no  child  of 
animal  or  man  was  born. 

We  know  Tammuz,  “the  true  son,”  best 
by  one  of  his  titles,  Adonis,  the  Lord  or  King. 


20  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


The  Rites  of  Adonis  were  celebrated  at  mid- 
summer. That  is  certain  and  memorable; 
for,  just  as  the  Athenian  fleet  was  setting  sail 
on  its  ill-omened  voyage  to  Syracuse,  the 
streets  of  Athens  were  thronged  with  funeral 
processions,  everywhere  was  seen  the  image 
of  the  dead  god,  and  the  air  was  full  of  the 
lamentations  of  weeping  women.  Thucydides 
does  not  so  much  as  mention  the  coincidence, 
but  Plutarch  ^ tells  us  those  who  took  account 
of  omens  were  full  of  concern  for  the  fate  of 
their  countrymen.  To  start  an  expedition 
on  the  day  of  the  funeral  rites  of  Adonis,  the 
Canaanitish  “Lord,”  was  no  luckier  than  to 
set  sail  on  a Friday,  the  death-day  of  the 
“Lord”  of  Christendom. 

The  rites  of  Tammuz  and  of  Adonis,  cele- 
brated in  the  summer,  were  rites  of  death 
rather  than  of  resurrection.  The  emphasis  is 
on  the  fading  and  dying  down  of  vegetation 
rather  than  on  its  upspringing.  The  reason 
of  this  is  simple  and  will  soon  become  mani- 
fest. For  the  moment  we  have  only  to  note 
that  while  in  Egypt  the  rites  of  Osiris  are 
represented  as  much  by  art  as  by  ritual,  in 
Babylon  and  Palestine  in  the  feasts  of  Tam- 
1 Vit.  Nik.,  13. 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


21 


muz  and  Adonis  it  is  ritual  rather  than  art 
that  obtains. 

We  have  now  to  pass  to  another  enquiry. 
We  have  seen  that  art  and  ritual,  not  only 
in  Greece  but  in  Egypt  and  Palestine,  are 
closely  hnked.  So  closely,  indeed,  are  they 
linked  that  we  even  begin  to  suspect  they 
may  have  a common  origin.  We  have  now 
to  ask,  what  is  it  that  links  art  and  ritual  so 
closely  together,  what  have  they  in  common.'* 
Do  they  start  from  the  same  impulse,  and  if 
so  why  do  they,  as  they  develop,  fall  so  widely 
asunder? 

It  will  clear  the  air  if  we  consider  for  a 
moment  what  we  mean  by  art,  and  also  in 
somewhat  greater  detail  what  we  mean  by 
ritual. 

Art,  Plato  ^ tells  us  in  a famous  passage  of 
the  Republic,  is  imitation;  the  artist  imitates 
natural  objects,  which  are  themselves  in  his 
philosophy  but  copies  of  higher  realities.  AU 
the  artist  can  do  is  to  make  a copy  of  a copy, 
to  hold  up  a mirror  to  Nature  in  which,  as 
he  turns  it  whither  he  will,  “are  reflected 

1 Rep.  X.  596-9. 


22  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


sun  and  heavens  and  earth  and  man,”  any- 
thing and  everything.  Never  did  a state- 
ment so  false,  so  wrong-headed,  contain  so 
much  suggestion  of  truth — truth  which,  by 
the  help  of  analysing  ritual,  we  may  perhaps 
be  able  to  disentangle.  But  first  its  false- 
hood must  be  grasped,  and  this  is  the  more 
important  as  Plato’s  misconception  in  modi- 
fied form  lives  on  to-day.  A painter  not  long 
ago  thus  defined  his  own  art:  “The  art  of 
painting  is  the  art  of  imitating  solid  objects 
upon  a flat  surface  by  means  of  pigments.” 
A sorry  life-work!  Few  people  to-day,  per- 
haps, regard  art  as  the  close  and  realistic  copy 
of  Natiu-e;  photography  has  at  least  scotched, 
if  not  slain,  that  error;  but  many  people  still 
regard  art  as  a sort  of  improvement  on  or  an 
“idealization”  of  Nature.  It  is  the  part  of 
the  artist,  they  think,  to  take  suggestions  and 
materials  from  Nature,  and  from  these  to 
build  up,  as  it  were,  a revised  version.  It 
is,  perhaps,  only  by  studying  those  rudi- 
mentary forms  of  art  that  are  closely  akin  to 
ritual  that  we  come  to  see  how  utterly  wrong- 
headed is  this  conception. 

Take  the  representations  of  Osiris  that  we 
have  just  described — the  mummy  rising  bit 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


23 


by  bit  from  bis  bier.  Can  any  one  maintain 
that  art  is  here  a copy  or  imitation  of 
reality?  However  “realistic”  the  painting, 
it  represents  a thing  imagined  not  actual. 
There  never  was  any  such  person  as  Osiris, 
and  if  there  had  been,  he  would  certainly 
never,  once  mummified,  have  risen  from  his 
tomb.  There  is  no  question  of  fact,  and  the 
copy  of  fact,  in  the  matter.  Moreover,  had 
there  been,  why  should  any  one  desire  to  make 
a copy  of  natural  fact?  The  whole  “imita- 
tion” theory,  to  which,  and  to  the  element 
of  truth  it  contains,  we  shall  later  have 
occasion  to  return,  errs,  in  fact,  through 
supplying  no  adequate  motive  for  a wide- 
spread human  energy.  It  is  probably  this 
lack  of  motive  that  has  led  other  theorizers  \ 
to  adopt  the  view  that  art  is  idealization.  ] 
Man  with  pardonable  optimism  desires,  it  is  / 
thought,  to  improve  on  Nature. 


Modern  science,  confronted  with  a problem 
like  that  of  the  rise  of  art,  no  longer  casts 
about  to  conjecture  how  art  might  have  arisen, 
she  examines  how  it  actually  did  arise. 
Abundant  material  has  now  been  collected 
from  among  savage  peoples  of  an  art  so 


24  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


primitive  that  we  hesitate  to  call  it  art  at 
all,  and  it  is  in  these  inchoate  efforts  that  we 
are  able  to  track  the  secret  motive  springs 
that  move  the  artist  now  as  then. 

Among  the  Huichol  Indians  ^ if  the  people 
fear  a drought  from  the  extreme  heat  of  the 
sun,  they  take  a clay  disk,  and  on  one  side 
of  it  they  paint  the  “face”  of  Father  Sun,  a 
circular  space  surrounded  by  rays  of  red  and 
blue  and  yellow  which  are  called  his  “arrows,” 
for  the  Huichol  sun,  like  Phoebus  Apollo,  has 
arrows  for  rays'.  On  the  reverse  side  they 
will  paint  the  progress  of  the  sun  through  the 
four  quarters  of  the  sky.  The  journey  is 
symbolized  by  a large  cross-like  figure  with  a 
central  circle  for  mid-day.  Round  the  edge 
are  beehive-shaped  mounds;  these  represent 
the  hills  of  earth.  The  red  and  yellow  dots 
that  surround  the  hills  are  cornfields.  The 
crosses  on  the  hills  are  signs  of  wealth  and 
money.  On  some  of  the  disks  birds  and 
scorpions  are  patinted,  and  on  one  are  curv- 
ing lines  which  mean  rain.  These  disks  are 
deposited  on  the  altar  of  the  god-house  and 
left,  and  then  all  is  well.  The  intention  might 

‘ C.  H.  Lumholtz,  Symbolism  of  the  Huichol  Indians, 
in  Mem.  of  the  Am.  Mus.  of  Nat.  Hist.,  Vol.  Ill,  “Anthro- 
pology.” (1900.) 


ART  AND  RITUAL 


25 


be  to  us  obscure,  but  a Huichol  Indian  would 
read  it  thus:  “Father  Sun  with  his  broad 
shield  (or  ‘face’)  and  his  arrows  rises  in  the 
east,  bringing  money  and  wealth  to  the 
Huichols.  His  heat  and  the  light  from  his 
rays  make  the  com  to  grow,  but  he  is  asked 
not  to  interfere  with  the  clouds  that  are 
gathering  on  the  hills.” 

Now  is  this  art  or  ritual  ? It  is  both  and 
neither.  We  distinguish  between  a form  of 
prayer  and  a work  of  art  and  count  them  in 
no  danger  of  confusion;  but  the  Huichol  goes 
back  to  that  earlier  thing,  a 'presentation.  He 
utters,  expresses  his  thought  about  the  sun 
and  his  emotion  about  the  sun  and  his  re- 
lation to  the  sun,  and  if  “prayer  is  the  soul’s 
sincere  desire”  he  has  painted  a prayer.  It  is 
not  a little  curious  that  the  same  notion  comes 
out  in  the  old  Greek  word  for  “prayer,”  euche. 
The  Greek,  when  he  wanted  help  in  trouble 
from  the  “Saviours,”  the  Dioscuri,  carved  a 
picture  of  them,  and,  if  he  was  a sailor,  added 
a ship.  Underneath  he  inscribed  the  word 
euche.  It  was  not  to  begin  with  a “vow” 
paid,  it  was  a presentation  of  his  strong  inner 
desire,  it  was  a sculptured  prayer. 

Ritual  then  involves  imitation;  but  does 


26  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


not  arise  out  of  it.  It  desires  to  recreate  an 
emotion,  not  to  reproduce  an  object.  A rite 
is,  indeed,  we  shall  later  see  (p.  42),  a sort  of 
stereotyped  action,  not  really  practical,  but 
yet  not  wholly  cut  loose  from  practice,  a 
reminiscence  or  an  anticipation  of  actual 
practical  doing;  it  is  fitly,  though  not  quite 
correctly,  called  by  the  Greeks  a dromenon, 
“a  thing  done.” 

At  the  bottom  of  art,  as  its  motive  power 
and  its  mainspring,  lies,  not  the  wish  to 
copy  Nature  or  even  improve  on  her — the 
Huichol  Indian  does  not  vainly  expend  his 
energies  on  an  effort  so  fruitless — but  rather 
an  impulse  shared  by  art  with  ritual,  the  de- 
sire, that  is,  to  utter,  to  give  out  a strongly 
felt  emotion  or  desire  by  representing,  by 
making  or  doing  or  enriching  the  object  or 
act  desired.  The  common  source  of  the  art 
and  ritual  of  Osiris  is  the  intense,  world- 
wide desire  that  the  life  of  Nature  which 
seemed  dead  should  live  again.  This  common 
emotional  factor  it  is  that  makes  art  and 
ritual  in  their  beginnings  well-nigh  indistin- 
guishable. Both,  to  begin  with,  copy  an 
act,  but  not  at  first  for  the  sake  of  the  copy. 
Only  when  the  emotion  dies  down  and  is 


AET  AND  RITUAI. 


27 


forgotten  does  the  copy  become  an  end  in 
itself,  a mere  mimicry. 

It  is  this  downward  path,  this  sinking  of 
making  to  mimicry,  that  makes  us  now-a-days 
think  of  ritual  as  a dull  and  formal  thing. 
Because  a rite  has  ceased  to  be  believed  in, 
it  does  not  in  the  least  follow  that  it  will 
cease  to  be  done.  We  have  to  reckon  with 
all  the  huge  forces  of  habit.  The  motor 
nerves,  once  set  in  one  direction,  given  the 
slightest  impulse  tend  always  to  repeat  the 
same  reaction.  We  mimic  not  only  others  but 
ourselves  mechanically,  even  after  all  emotion 
proper  to  the  act  is  dead;  and  then  because 
mimicry  has  a certain  ingenious  charm,  it  be- 
comes an  end  in  itself  for  ritual,  even  for  art. 

It  is  not  easy,  as  we  saw,  to  classify  the 
Huichol  prayer-disks.  As  prayers  they  are 
ritual,  as  surfaces  decorated  they  are  speci- 
mens of  primitive  art.  In  the  next  chapter 
we  shall  have  to  consider  a kind  of  ceremony 
very  instructive  for  our  point,  but  again  not 
very  easy  to  classify — the  pantomimic  dances 
which  are,  almost  all  over  the  world,  so  strik- 
ing a feature  in  savage  social  and  rehgious  life. 
Are  they  to  be  classed  as  ritual  or  art? 


28  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


These  pantomime  dances  lie,  indeed,  at  the 
very  heart  and  root  of  our  whole  subject,  and 
it  is  of  the  first  importance  that  before  going 
further  in  our  analysis  of  art  and  ritual,  we 
should  have  some  familiarity  with  their 
general  character  and  gist,  the  more  so  as 
they  are  a class  of  ceremonies  now  practically 
extinct.  We  shall  find  in  these  djances  the 
meeting-point  between  art  and  ritual,  or 
rather  we  shall  find  in  them  the  rude,  inchoate 
material  out  of  which  both  ritual  and  art,  at 
least  in  one  of  its  forms,  developed.  More- 
over, we  shall  find  in  pantomimic  dancing  a 
ritual  bridge,  as  it  were,  between  actual  fife  and 
those  representations  of  life  which  we  call  art. 

In  our  next  chapter,  therefore,  we  shall 
study  the  ritual  dance  in  general,  and  try  to 
understand  its  psychological  origin;  in  the  fol- 
lowing chapter  (III)  we  shall  take  a particular 
dance  of  special  importance,  the  Spring  Dance 
as  practised  among  various  primitive  peoples. 
We  shall  then  be  prepared  to  approach  the 
study  of  the  Spring  Dance  among  the  Greeks, 
which  developed  into  their  drama,  and 
thereby  to,  we  hope,  throw  light  on  the  rela- 
tion between  ritual  and  art. 


CHAPTER  II 


PRIMITIVE  ritual:  PANTOMIMIC  DANCES 

In  books  and  hymns  of  bygone  days,  which 
dealt  with  the  teligion  of  “the  heathen  in  his 
blindness,”  he  was  pictured  as  a being  of 
strange  perversity,  apt  to  bow  down  to  “gods 
of  wood  and  stone.”  The  question  why  he 
acted  thus  foolishly  was  never  raised.  It  was 
just  his  “blindness”;  the  light  of  the  gospel 
had  not  yet  reached  him.  Now-a-days  the 
savage  has  become  material  not  only  for  con- 
version and  hymn-writing  but  for  scientific 
observation.  We  want  to  understand  his 
psychology,  i.  e.  how  he  behaves,  not  merely 
for  his  sake,  that  we  may  abruptly  and  des- 
potically convert  or  reform  him,  but  for 
our  own  sakes;  partly,  of  course,  for  sheer 
love  of  knowing,  but  also, — since  we  realize 
that  our  own  behaviour  is  based  on  instincts 
kindred  to  his, — in  order  that,  by  understand- 
ing his  behaviour,  we  may  understand,  and  it 
may  be  better,  our  own. 

29 


30  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Anthropologists  who  study  the  primitive 
peoples  of  to-day  find  that  the  worship  of 
false  gods,  bowing  “ down  to  wood  and  stone,” 
bulks  larger  in  the  mind  of  the  hymn-writer 
than  in  the  mind  of  the  savage.  ' We  look  for 
temples  to  heathen  idols;  we  find  dancing- 
places  and  ritual  dances.  The  savage  is  a 
man  of  action.  Instead  of  asking  a god  to 
do  what  he  wants  done,  he  does  it  or  tries  to 
do  it  himself;  instead  of  prayers  he  utters 
spells.  In  a word,  he  practises  magic,  and 
above  all  he  is  strenuously  and  frequently 
engaged  in  dancing  magical  dances.  When 
a savage  wants  sun  or  wind  or  rain,  he  does 
not  go  to  church  and  prostrate  himself  before 
a false  god;  he  summons  his  tribe  and  dances 
a sun  dance  or  a wind  dance  or  a rain  dance. 
When  he  would  hunt  and  catch  a bear,  he 
does  not  pray  to  his  god  for  strength  to  out- 
wit and  outmatch  the  bear,  he  rehearses 
his  hu^it  in  a bear  dance. 

Herq,  again,  we  have  some  modern  prej- 
udice atid  misunderstanding  to  overcome. 
Dancing  is  to  us  a light  form  of  recreation 
practised' by  the  quite  young  from  sheer  joie  de 
vivre,  and  essentially  inappropriate  to  the  ma- 
ture. But  among  the  Tarahumares  of  Mexico 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


31 


the  word  noldvoa  means  both  “to  work”  and 
“to  dance.”  An  old  man  will  reproach  a 
young  man  saying,  “Why  do  you  not  go  and 
work.?”  {noldvoa).  He  means  “Why  do  you 
not  dance  instead  of  looking  on.?”  It  is 
strange  to  us  to  learn  that  among  savages,  as 
a man  passes  from  childhood  to  youth,  from 
youth  to  mature  manhood,  so  the  number  of 
his  “dances”  increase,  and  the  number  of 
these  “dances”  is  the  measure  ■pari  passu  of 
his  social  importance.  Finally,  in  extreme  old 
age  he  falls  out,  he  ceases  to  exist,  because 
he  cannot  dance;  his  dance,  and  with  it  his 
social  status,  passes  to  another  and  a younger. 

Magical  dancing  still  goes  on  in  Europe  to- 
day. In  Swabia  and  among  the  Transyl- 
vanian Saxons  it  is  a common  custom,  says 
Dr.  Frazer,^  for  a man  who  has  some  hemp  to 
leap  high  in  the  field  in  the  belief  that  tWs  ^11 
make  the  hemp  grow  tall.  In  m^y^^rts  of 
Germany  and  Austria  the  peasant  i:blnks|f^ 
can  make  the  flax  grow  tall  byldaacmgftr 
leaping  high  or  by  jumping  back»^ds  fr^ 
a table;  the  higher  the  leap  themaller  wul 

^ These  instances  are  all  taken  from  The  uMden  Bough.h, 
The  Magic  Art,  I,  139  ■ - 


32  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


be  the  flax  that  year.  There  is  happily  little 
possible  doubt  as  to  the  practical  reason 
of  this  mimic  dancing.  When  Macedonian 
farmers  have  done  digging  their  fields  they 
throw  their  spades  up  into  the  air  and,  catch- 
ing them  again,  exclaim,  “May  the  crop  grow 
as  high  as  the  spade  has  gone.”  In  some 
parts  of  Eastern  Russia  the  girls  dance  one 
by  one  in  a large  hoop  at  midnight  on  Shrove 
Tuesday.  The  hoop  is  decked  with  leaves, 
flowers,  and  ribbons,  and  attached  to  it  are 
a small  bell  and  some  flax.  While  dancing 
within  the  hoop  each  girl  has  to  wave  her 
arms  vigorously  and  cry,  “Flax,  grow,”  or 
words  to  that  effect.  When  she  has  done 
she  leaps  out  of  the  hoop  or  is  lifted  out  of 
it  by  her  partner. 

Is  this  art?  We  shall  unhesitatingly  an- 
swer “No.”  Is  it  ritual?  With  some  hesita- 
tion we  shall  probably  again  answer  “No.” 
It  is,  we  think,  not  a rite,  but  merely  a super- 
stitious practice  of  ignorant  men  and  women. 
But  take  another  instance.  Among  the 
Omaha  Indians  of  North  America,  when 
the  corn  is  withering  for  want  of  rain,  the 
members  of  the  sacred  Buffalo  Society  fill 
a large  vessel  with  water  and  dance  four  times 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


33 


round  it.  One  of  them  drinks  some  of  the 
water  and  spirts  it  into  the  air,  making  a 
fine  spray  in  imitation  of  mist  or  drizzling 
rain.  Then  he  upsets  the  vessel,  spilling  the 
water  on  the  ground;  whereupon  the  dancers 
fall  down  and  drink  up  the  water,  getting 
mud  all  over  their  faces.  This  saves  the 
corn.  Now  probably  any  dispassionate  person 
would  describe  such  a ceremonial  as  “an  in- 
teresting instance  of  primitive  ritual.”  The 
sole  difference  between  the  two  types  is  that, 
in  the  one  the  practice  is  carried  on  privately, 
or  at  least  unofficially,  in  the  other  it  is  done  ^ 
publicly  by  a collective  authorized  body, 
officially  for  the  public  good. 

The  distinction  is  One  of  high  importance, 
but  for  the  moment  what  concerns  us  is,  to 
see  the  common  factor  in  the  two  sets  of  acts, 
what  is  indeed  their  source  and  mainspring. 

In  the  case  of  the  girl  dancing  in  the  hoop  and 
leaping  out  of  it  there  is  no  doubt.  The 
words  she  says,  “Flax,  grow,”  prove  the 
point.  She  does  what  she  wants  done.  Her<^^ 
intense  desire  finds  utterance  in  an  act.  She 
obeys  the  simplest  possible  impulse.  Let  any 
one  watch  an  exciting  game  of  tennis,  or 
better  still  perhaps  a game  of  billiards,  he 


34  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


will  find  himself  doing  in  sheer  sympathy  the 
thing  he  wants  done,  reaching  out  a tense  arm 
where  the  billiard  cue  should  go,  raising  an 
unoccupied  leg  to  help  the  suspended  ball  over 
the  net.  Sympathetic  magic  is,  modern  psy- 
chology teaches  us,  in  the  main  and  at  the 
outset,  not  the  outcome  of  intellectual  illusion, 
not  even  the  exercise  of  a “mimetic  instinct,” 
but  simply,  in  its  ultimate  analysis,  an  utter- 
ance, a discharge  of  emotion  and  longing. 

But  though  the  utterance  of  emotion  is  the 
prime  and  moving,  it  is  not  the  sole,  factor. 
We  may  utter  emotion  in  a prolonged  howl, 
we  may  even  utter  it  in  a collective  prolonged 
howl,  yet  we  should  scarcely  call  this  ritual, 
still  less  art.  It  is  true  that  a prolonged 
collective  howl  will  probably,  because  it  is 
collective,  develop  a rhythm,  a regular  recur- 
rence, and  hence  probably  issue  in  a kind  of 
ritual  music;  but  for  the  further  stage  of  de- 
velopment into  art  another  step  is  necessary. 
We  must  not  only  utter  emotion,  we  must 
represent  it,  that  is,  we  must  in  some  way 
reproduce  or  imitate  or  express  the  thought 
which  is  causing  us  emotion.  Art  is  not 
imitation,  but  art  and  also  ritual  frequently 
and  legitimately  contain  an  element  of  imita- 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


35 


lion.  Plato  was  so  far  right.  What  exactly 
is  imitated  we  shall  see  when  we  come  to 
discuss  the  precise  difference  between  art 
and  ritual. 

The  Greek  word  for  a rite  as  already  noted  is 
dromenon,  “a  thing  done” — and  the  word  is 
full  of  instruction.  The  Greek  had  reahzed 
that  to  perform  a rite  you  must  do  something, 
that  is,  you  must  not  only  feel  something  but 
express  it  in  action,  or,  to  put  it  psycho- 
logically, you  must  not  only  receive  an  im- 
pulse, you  must  react  to  it.  The  word  for 
rite,  dromenon,  “thing  done,”  arose,  of 
course,  not  from  any  psychological  analysis, 
but  from  the  simple  fact  that  rites  among  the 
primitive  Greeks  were  things  done,  mimetic 
dances  and  the  like.  It  is  a fact  of  cardinal 
importance  that  their  word  for  theatrical 
representation,  drama,  is  own  cousin  to  their 
word  for  rite,  dromenon;  drama  also  means 
“thing  done.”  Greek  linguistic  instinct 
pointed  plainly  to  the  fact  that  art  and  ritual 
are  near  relations.  To  this  fact  of  crucial  im- 
portance for  our  argument  we  shall  return 
later.  But  from  the  outset  it  should  be  borne 
in  mind  that  in  these  two  Greek  words. 


36  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


dromenon  and  drama,  in  their  exact  meaning, 
their  relation  and  their  distinction,  we  have 
the  keynote  and  clue  to  our  whole  discussion. 

For  the  moment  we  have  to  note  that  the 
Greek  word  for  rite,  dromenon,  “thing  done,” 
is  not  strictly  adequate.  It  omits  a factor 
of  prime  importance;  it  includes  too  much 
and  not  enough.  All  “things  done”  are 
not  rites.  You  may  shrink  back  from  a blow; 
that  is  the  expression  of  an  emotion,  that  is  a 
reaction  to  a stimulus,  but  that  is  not  a rite. 
You  may  digest  your  dinner;  that  is  a thing 
done,  and  a thing  of  high  importance,  but  it 
is  not  a rite. 

One  element  in  the  rite  we  have  already 
, observed,  and  that  is,  that  it  be  done  col- 
' lectively,  by  a number  of  persons  feeling  the 
same  emotion.  A meal  digested  alone  is 
certainly  no  rite;  a meal  eaten  in  common, 
under  the  influence  of  a common  emotion, 
may,  and  often  does,  tend  to  become  a rite. 

Collectivity  and  emotional  tension,  two 
elements  that  tend  to  turn  the  simple  reaction 
into  a rite,  are — specially  among  primitive 
peoples — closely  associated,  indeed  scarcely 
separable.  The  individual  among  savages 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


37 


has  but  a thin  and  meagre  personality;  high 
emotional  tension  is  to  him  only  caused  and 
maintained  by  a thing  felt  socially;  it  is 
what  the  tribe  feels  that  is  sacred,  that  is 
matter  for  ritual.  He  may  make  by  himself 
excited  movements,  he  may  leap  for  joy,  for 
fear;  but  unless  these  movements  are  made 
by  the  tribe  together  they  will  not  become 
rhythmical;  they  will  probably  lack  intensity, 
and  certamly  permanence.  Intensity,  then, 
and  collectivity  go  together,  and  both  are 
necessary  for  ritual,  but  both  may  be  present 
without  constituting  art;  we  have  not  yet 
touched  the  dividing  line  between  art  and 
ritual.  When  and  how  does  the  dromenon, 
the  rite  done,  pass  over  into  the  drama? 

The  genius  of  the  Greek  language  felt,  be- 
fore it  consciously  knew,  the  difference.  This 
feeling  ahead  for  distinctions  is  characteristic 
of  all  languages,  as  has  been  well  shown  by 
Mr.  Pearsall  Smith  ^ in  another  manual  of 
our  series.  It  is  an  instinctive  process  arising 
independently  of  reason,  though  afterwards 
justified  by  it.  What,  then,  is  the  distinction 
between  art  and  ritual  which  the  genius  of  the 

* “The  English  Language,”  Home  University  Library, 

p. 


38  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Greek  language  felt  after,  when  it  used  the 
two  words  dromenon  and  drama  for  two  differ- 
ent sorts  of  “things  done”?  To  answer  our 
question  we  must  turn  for  a brief  moment  to 
psychology,  the  science  of  human  behaviour. 

We  are  accustomed  for  practical  conven- 
ience to  divide  up  our  human  nature  into 
partitions — intellect,  will,  the  emotions,  the 
passions — with  further  subdivisions,  e.  g.  of 
the  intellect  into  reason,  imagination,  and  the 
like.  These  partitions  we  are  apt  to  arrange 
into  a sort  of  order  of  merit,  or  as  it  is 
called  a hierarchy,  with  Reason  as  head  and 
crown,  and  under  her  sway  the  emotions 
and  passions.  The  result  of  establishing  this 
hierarchy  is  that  the  impulsive  side  of  our 
nature  comes  off  badly,  the  passions  and  even 
the  emotions  lying  under  a certain  ban.  This 
popular  psychology  is  really  a convenient  and 
perhaps  indispensable,  mythology.  Reason, 
the  emotions,  and  the  will  have  no  more 
separate  existences  than  Jupiter,  Juno,  and 
Minerva. 

A more  fruitful  way  of  looking  at  our 
human  constitution  is  to  see  it,  not  as  a 
bundle  of  separate  faculties,  but  as  a sort  of 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


39 


continuous  cycle  of  activities.  What  really 
happens  is,  putting  it  very  roughly,  something 
of  this  sort.  To  each  one  of  us  the  world  is,  or 
seems  to  be,  eternally  divided  into  two  halves. 
On  the  one  side  is  ourself,  on  the  other  all  the 
rest  of  things.  All  our  action,  our  behaviour, 
our  life,  is  a relation  between  these  two  halves, 
and  that  behaviour  seems  to  have  three,  not 
divisions,  but  stages.  The  outside  world, 
the  other  half,  the  object  if  we  like  so  to  call 
it,  acts  upon  us,  gets  at  us  through  our  senses. 
We  hear  or  see  or  taste  or  feel  something;  to 
put  it  roughly,  we  perceive  something,  and  as 
we  perceive  it,  so,  instantly,  we  feel  about  it, 
^towards  it,  we  have  emotion.  And  instantly 
again,  that  emotion  becomes  a motive-power, 
we  re-act  towards  the  object  that  got  at  us, 
we  want  to  alter  it  or  our  relation  to  it.  If 
we  did  not  perceive  we  should  not  feel,  if  we 
did  not  feel  we  should  not  act.  When  we 
talk — as  we  almost  must  talk — of  Reason, 
the  Emotions,  or  the  Passions  and  the  Will 
leading  to  action,  we  think  of  the  three  stages 
or  aspeets  of  our  behaviour  as  separable  and 
even  perhaps  hostile;  we  want,  perhaps,  to 
purge  the  intellect  from  all  infection  of  the 
emotions.  But  in  reality,  though  at  a given 


40  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


moment  one  or  the  other  element,  knowing, 
feeling,  or  acting,  may  be  dominant  in  our 
consciousness,  the  rest  are  always  immanent. 

When  we  think  of  the  three  elements  or 
stages,  knowing,  feeling,  striving,  as  all  being 
necessary  factors  in  any  complete  bit  of  hu- 
man behaviour,  we  no  longer  try  to  arrange 
them  in  a hierarchy  with  knowing  or  reason 
at  the  head.  Knowing — that  is,  receiving 
and  recognizing  a stimulus  from  without — 
would  seem  to  come  first;  we  must  be  acted 
on  before  we  can  re-act;  but  priority  confers 
no  supremacy.  We  can  look  at  it  another 
^^ay.  Perceiving  is  the  first  rung  on  the  ladder 
'that  leads  to  action,  feeling  is  the  second, 
action  is  the  topmost  rung,  the  primary  goal, 
as  it  were,  of  all  the  climbing.  For  the 
purpose  of  our  discussion  this  is  perhaps  the 
simplest  way  of  looking  at  human  behaviour. 

Movement,  then,  action,  is,  as  it  were,  the 
goal  and  the  end  of  thought.  Perception 
finds  its  natural  outlet  and  completion  in 
doing.  But  here  comes  in  a curious  consider- 
ation important  for  our  purpose.  In  animals, 
in  so  far  as  they  act  by  “instinct,”  as  we  say, 
perception,  knowing,  is  usually  followed  im- 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


41 


mediately  and  inevitably  by  doing,  by  such 
doing  as  is  calculated  to  conserve  the  animal 
and  his  species;  but  in  some  of  the  higher 
animals,  and  especially  in  man,  where  the 
nervous  system  is  more  complex,  perception  is 
not  instantly  transformed  into  action;  there 
is  an  interval  for  choice  between  several 
possible  actions.  Perception  is  pent  up  and 
becomes,  helped  by  emotion,  conscious  repre- 
sentation. Now  it  is,  psychologists  tell  us, 
just  in  this  interval,  this  space  between  per- 
ception and  reaction,  this  momentary  halt, 
that  all  our  mental  life,  our  images,  our  ideas, 
our  consciousness,  and  assuredly  our  religion 
and  our  art,  is  built  up.  If  the  cycle  of  kno Wr- 
ing, feeling,  acting,  were  instantly  fulfilled, 
that  is,  if  we  were  a mass  of  well-contrived  in- 
stincts, we  should  hardly  have  dromena,  and 
we  should  certainly  never  pass  from  dromena 
to  drama.  Art  and  religion,  though  perhaps 
not  wholly  ritual,  spring  from  the  incomplete 
cycle,  from  unsatisfied  desire,  from  perception 
and  emotion  that  have  somehow  not  found  ( 
immediate  outlet  in  practical  action.  When  I 
we  come  later  to  establish  the  dividing  line 
between  art  and  ritual  we  shall  find  this  fact 
to  be  cardinal. 


42  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


We  have  next  to  watch  how  out  of  repre- 
sentation repeated  there  grows  up  a kind  of 
abstraction  which  helps  the  transition  from 
ritual  to  art.  When  the  men  of  a tribe  re- 
turn from  a hunt,  a journey,  a battle,  or 
any  event  that  has  caused  them  keen  and 
pleasant  emotion,  they  will  often  react 
their  doings  round  the  camp-fire  at  night 
to  an  attentive  audience  of  women  and 
young  boys.  The  cause  of  this  world-wide 
custom  is  no  doubt  in  great  part  the  desire 
Wo  repeat  a pleasant  experience;  the  battle 
or  the  hunt  will  not  be  re-enacted  unless 
it  has  been  successful.  Together  with  this 
must  be  reckoned  a motive  seldom  absent 
from  human  endeavour,  the  desire  for  self- 
exhibition, self-enhancement.  But  in  this 
re-enactment,  we  see  at  once,  lies  the  germ  of 
history  and  of  commemorative  ceremonial, 
and  also,  oddly  enough,  an  impulse  emotional 
in  itself  begets  a process  we  think  of  as 
characteristically  and  exclusively  intellectual, 
the  process  of  abstraction.  The  savage  be- 
gins with  the  particular  battle  that  actually 
did  happen;  but,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  if  he  re- 
enacts it  again  and  again  the  particular  battle 
or  hunt  will  be  forgotten,  the  representation 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


43 


cuts  itseK  loose  from  the  particular  action 
from  which  it  arose,  and  becomes  generahzed, 
as  it  were  abstracted.  Like  children  he  plays 
not  at  a funeral,  but  at  “funerals,”  not  at  a 
battle,  but'  at  battles;  and  so  arises  the  war- 
dance,  or  fhe  death-dance,  or  the  hunt-dance. 
This  will  serve  to  show  how  inextricably  the 
elements  of  knowing  and  feehng  are  inter- 
twined. 

So,  too,  with  the  element  of  action.  If 
we  conside:p  the  occasions  when  a savage 
dances,  it  will  soon  appear  that  it  is  not  only 
after  a battle  or  a hunt  that  he  dances  in 
order  to  commemorate  it,  but  before.  Once 
the  commemorative  dance  has  got  abstracted 
or  generalized  it  becomes  material  for  the 
magical  dance,  the  dance  pre-done.  A tribe 
about  to  go  to  war  will  work  itself  up  by  a 
war  dance;  about  to  start  out  huntiog  they 
will  catch  their  game  m pantomime.  Here 
clearly  the  main  emphasis  is  on  the  practical, 
the  active,  doing-element  in  the  cycle.  The 
dance  is,  as  it  were,  a sort  of  precipitated  de- 
sire, a discharge  of  pent-up  emotion  into  action. 

In  both  these  kind  of  dances,  the  dance 
that  commemorates  by  re-presenting  and  the 
dance  that  anticipates  by  pre-presenting. 


44  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Plato  would  have  seen  the  element  of  imita- 
tion what  the  Greeks  called  mimesis,  which  he 
believed  we  saw  to  be  the  very  source  and  es- 
sence of  all  art.  In  a sense  he  would  have 
been  right.  The  commemorative  dance  does 
especially  re-present;  it  reproduces  the  past 
hunt  or  battle;  but  if  we  analyse  a little  more 
closely  we  see  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  copying 
the  actual  battle  itself,  but  for  the  emotion  felt 
•about  the  battle.  This  they  desire  to  re-live. 
The  emotional  element  is  seen  still  more 
clearly  in  the  dance  /ore-done  for  magical 
purposes.  Success  in  war  or  in  the  hunt  is 
keenly,  intensely  desired.  The  hunt  or  the 
battle  cannot  take  place  at  the  moment,  so 
the  cycle  cannot  complete  itself.  The  desire 
cannot  find  utterance  in  the  actual  act;  it 
grows  and  accumulates  by  inhibition,  till  at 
last  the  exasperated  nerves  and  muscles  can 
bear  it  no  longer;  it  breaks  out  into  mimetic 
anticipatory  action.  But,  and  this  is  the  im- 
portant point,-  the  action  is  mimetic,  not  of 
what  you  see  done  by  another;  but  of  what 
you  desire  to  do  yourself.  The  habit  of  this 
mimesis  of  the  thing  desired,  is  set  up,  and  rit- 
ual begins.  Ritual,  then,  does  imitate,  but  for 
an  emotional,  not  an  altogether  practical,  end. 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


45 


Plato  never  saw  a savage  war-dance  or  a 
hunt-dance  or  a rain-dance,  and  it  is  not 
likely  that,  if  he  had  seen  one,  he  would  have 
allowed  it  to  be  art  at  all.  But  he  must  often 
have  seen  a class  of  performances  very  similar, 
to  which  imquestionably  he  would  give  the 
name  of  art.  He  must  have  seen  plays  like 
those  of  Aristophanes,  with  the  chorus  dressed 
up  as  Birds  or  Clouds  or  Frogs  or  Wasps,  and 
he  might  imdoubtedly  have  claimed  such 
plays  as  evidence  of  the  rightness  of  his  defini- 
tion. Here  were  men  imitating  birds  and 
beasts,  dressed  in  their  skins  and  feathers, 
mimicking  their  gestures.  For  his  own  days 
his  judgment  would  have  been  unquestionably 
right;  but  again,  if  we  look  at  the  beginning 
of  things,  we  find  an  origin  and  an  impulse 
much  deeper,  vaguer,  and  more  emotional. 

The  beast  dances  found  widespread  over 
the  savage  world  took  their  rise  when  men 
really  believed,  what  St.  Francis  tried  to 
preach:  that  beasts  and  birds  and  fishes  were 
his  “little  brothers.”  Or  rather,  perhaps, 
more  strictly,  he  felt  them  to  be  his  great 
brothers  and  his  fathers,  for  the  attitude  of 
the  Austrahan  towards  the  kangaroo,  the 
North  American  towards  the  grizzly  bear,  is 


46  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


one  of  affection  tempered  by  deep  religious 
awe.  The  beast  dances  look  back  to  that 
early  phase  of  civilization  which  survives  in 
crystallized  form  in  what  we  call  totemism. 
“Totem”  means  tribe,  but  the  tribe  was  of 
animals  as  well  as  men.  In  the  Kangaroo 
tribe  there  were  real  leaping  kangaroos  as 
well  as  men-kangaroos.  The'  men-kangaroos 
when  they  danced  and  leapt  did  it,  not  to  imi- 
tate kangaroos — you  cannot  imitate  yourself 
— but  just  for  natural  joy  of  heart  because 
they  were  kangaroos;  they  belonged  to  the 
Kangaroo  tribe,  they  bore  the  tribal  marks 
and  dehghted  to  assert  their  tribal  unity. 
What  they  felt  was  not  mimesis  but  “par- 
ticipation,” unity,  and  community.  Later, 
when  man  begins  to  distinguish  between 
himself  and  his  strange  fellow-tribesmen,'_to 
realize  that  he  is  not  a kangaroo  hke  other 
kangaroos,  he  will  try  to  revive  his  old  faith, 
his  old  sense  of  participation  and  oneness,  by 
conscious  imitation.  Thus  though  imitation 
is  not  the  object  of  these  dances,  it  grows  up  in 
/and  through  them.  It  is  the  same  with  art. 
The  origin  of  art  is  not  mimesis,  but  mimesis 
springs  up  out  of  art,  out  of  emotional  ex- 
pression, and  constantly  and  closely  neigh- 


PRIMITIVE  RITUAL 


47 


hours  it.  Art  and  ritual  are  at  the  outset 
alike  in  this,  that  they  do  not  seek  to  copy  a 
fact,  but  to  reproduce,  to  re-enact  an  emotion. 

We  shall  see  this  more  clearly  if  we  examine 
for  a moment  this  Greek  word  mimesis.  We 
translate  mimesis  by  “imitation,”  and  we 
do  very  wrongly.  The  word  mimesis  means 
the  action  or  doing  of  a person  called  a mime. 
Now  a mime  was  simply  a person  who  dressed 
up  and  acted  in  a pantomime  or  primitive 
drama.  He  was  roughly  what  we  should 
call  an  actor,  and  it  is  significant  that  in  the 
word  actor  we  stress  not  imitating  but  acting, 
doing,  just  what  the  Greek  stressed  in  his 
words  dromenon  and  drama.  The  actor  dresses 
up,  puts  on  a mask,  wears  the  skin  of  a beast 
or  the  feathers  of  a bird,  not,  as  we  have 
seen,  to  copy  something  or  some  one  who  is 
not  himself,  but  to  emphasize,  enlarge,  en- 
hance, his  own  personality;  he  masquerades, 
he  does  not  mimic. 

The  celebrants  in  the  very  primitive  ritual 
of  the  Mountain-Mother  in  Thrace  were,  we 
know,  called  mimes.  In  the  fragment  of  his 
lost  play,  dEschylus,  after  describing  the  din 
made  by  the  “mountain  gear”  of  the  Mother, 


48  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  maddening  hum  of  the  bombykes,  a sort  of 
spinning-top,  the  clash  of  the  brazen  cymbals 
and  the  twang  of  the  strings,  thus  goes  on: 

“And  bull -voices  roar  thereto  from  some- 
where out  of  the  unseen,  fearful  mimes,  and 
from  a drum  an  image,  as  it  were,  erf  thunder 
underground  is  borne  on  the  air  heavy  with 
dread.” 

Here  we  have  undoubtedly  some  sort  of 
“bull-roaring,”  thunder-  and  wind-making 
ceremony,  like  those  that  go  on  in  Austraha 
to-day.  The  mimes  are  not  mimicking  thun- 
der out  of  curiosity,  they  are  making  it  and 
enacting  and  uttering  it  for  magical  purposes. 
When  a sailor  wants  a wind  he  makes  it,  or, 
as  he  later  says,  he  whistles  for  it;  when  a 
savage  or  a Greek  wants  thunder  to  bring  rain 
he  makes  it,  becomes  it.  But  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  as  the  belief  in  magic  declines,  what  was 
once  intense  desire,  issuing  in  the  making  of 
or  the  being  of  a thing,  becomes  mere  copying 
of  it;  the  mime,  the  maker,  sinks  to  be  in 
our  modern  sense  the  mimic;  as  faith  declines, 
folly  and  futility  set  in;  the  earnest,  zealous 
o£t  sinks  into  a frivolous  mimicry,  a sort  of 
child’s-play. 


CHAPTER  III 


SEASONAL  rites:  THE  SPRING  FESTIVAL 

We  have  seen  in  the  last  chapter  that 
whatever  interests  primitive  man,  whatever 
makes  him  feel  strongly,  he  tends  to  re-enact. 
Any  one  of  his  manifold  occupations,  hunting, 
fighting,  later  ploughing  and  sowing,  provided 
it  be  of  sufficient  interest  and  importance,  is 
material  for  a dromenon  or  rite.  We  have 
also  seen  that,  weak  as  he  is  in  individuahty, 
it  is  not  his  private  and  personal  emotions 
that  tend  to  become  ritual,  but  those  that 
are  public,  felt  and  expressed  officially,  that 
is,  by  the  whole  tribe  or  community.  It  is 
further  obvious  that  such  dances,  when  they 
develop  iuto  actual  rites,  tend  to  be  performed 
at  fixed  times.  We  have  now  to  consider 
when  and  why.  The  element  of  fixity  and 
regular  repetition  in  rites  cannot  be  too 
strongly  emphasized.  It  is  a factor  of  para- 
mount importance,  essential  to  the  develop- 
ment from  ritual  to  art,  from  dromenon  to 
drama. 

The  two  great  interests  of  primitive  man 
49 


50  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


are  food  and  children.  As  Dr.  Frazer  has  well 
said,  if  man  the  individual  is  to  live  he  must 
have  food;  if  his  race  is  to  persist  he  must 
have  children.  “To  live  and  to  cause  to 
live,  to  eat  food  and  to  beget  children,  these 
were  the  primary  wants  of  man  in  the 
past,  and  they  will  be  the  primary  wants 
of  men  in  the  future  so  long  as  the  world 
lasts.”  Other  things  may  be  added  to  enrich 
and  beautify  human  life,  but,  unless  these 
wants  are  first  satisfied,  hmnanity  itself  must 
cease  to  exist.  These  two  things,  therefore, 
food  and  children,  were  what  men  chiefly 
sought  to  procure  by  the  performance  of 
magical  rites  for  the  regulation  of  the  seasons. 
They  are  the  very  foundation-stones  of  that 
ritual  from  which  art,  if  we  are  right,  took 
its  rise.  From  this  need  for  food  sprang 
seasonal,  periodic  festivals.  The  fact  that 
festivals  are  seasonal,  constantly  recurrent, 
solidifies,  makes  permanent,  and  as  already 
explained  (p.  42),  in  a sense  intellectualizes 
and  abstracts  the  emotion  that  prompts  them. 

The  seasons  are  indeed  only  of  value  to 
primitive  man  because  they  are  related,  as 
he  swiftly  and  necessarily  finds  out,  to  his 
food  supply.  He  has,  it  would  seem,  little 


SEASONAL  RITES 


51 


sensitiveness  to  the  aesthetic  impulse  of  the 
beauty  of  a spring  morning,  to  the  pathos 
of  autumn.  What  he  realizes  first  and  fore- 
most is,  that  at  certain  times  the  animals, 
and  still  more  the  plants,  which  form  his  food, 
appear,  at  certain  others  they  disappear.  It 
is  these  times  that  become  the  central  points, 
the  focuses  of  his  interest,  and  the  dates  of 
his  religious  festivals.  These  dates  will  vary, 
of  course,  in  different  coimtries  and  in  dif- 
ferent climates.  It  is,  therefore,  idle  to  at- 
tempt a study  of  the  ritual  of  a people  without 
knowing  the  facts  of  their  climate  and  sur- 
roundings. In  Egypt  the  food  supply  will 
depend  on  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  Nile,  and  on 
this  rise  and  fall  will  depend  the  ritual  and 
calendar  of  Osiris.  And  yet  treatises  on 
Egyptian  religion  are  still  to  be  found  which 
begin  by  recounting  the  rites  and  mythology 
of  Osiris,  as  though  these  were  primary,  and 
then  end  with  a corollary  to  the  effect  that 
these  rites  and  this  calendar  were  “asso- 
ciated” with  the  worship  of  Osiris,  or,  even 
worse  still,  “instituted  by”  the  religion  of 
Osiris.  The  Nile  regulates  the  food  supply  of 
Egypt,  the  monsoon  that  of  certain  South 
Pacific  islands;  the  calendar  of  Egypt  de- 


52  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


pends  on  the  Nile,  of  the  South  Pacific  islands 
on  the  monsoon. 

In  his  recent  Introduction  to  Mathematics  ^ 
Dr.  Whitehead  has  pointed  out  how  the 
“whole  life  of  Nature  is  dominated  by  the 
existence  of  periodic  events.”  The  rotation 
of  the  earth  produces  successive  days;  the 
path  of  the  earth  round  the  sim  leads  to  the 
yearly  recurrence  of  the  seasons;  the  phases 
of  the  moon  are  recurrent,  and  though  artifi- 
cial light  has  made  these  phases  pass  almost 
imnoticed  to-day,  in  climates  where  the  skies 
are  clear,  human  fife  was  largely  infiuenced 
by  moonlight.  Even  our  own  bodily  life, 
with  its  recurrent  heart-beats  and  breathings, 
is  essentially  periodic.^  The  presupposition 
of  periodicity  is  indeed  fundamental  to  our 
very  conception  of  life,  and  but  for  periodicity 
the  very  means  of  measuring  time  as  a quan- 
tity would  be  absent. 

Periodicity  is  fundamental  to  certain  de- 
partments of  mathematics,  that  is  evident; 
it  is  perhaps  less  evident  that  periodicity  is 
a factor  that  has  gone  to  the  making  of 
ritual,  and  hence,  as  we  shall  see,  of  art. 

* Chapter  XII:  “Periodicity  in  Nature.”  ^ Ibid. 


SEASONAL  RITES 


53 


And  yet  this  is  manifestly  the  case.  All 
primitive  calendars  are  ritual  calendars,  suc- 
cessions of  feast-days,  a patchwork  of  days 
of  different  quality  and  character  recurring; 
pattern  at  least  is  based  on  periodicity.  But 
there  is  another  and  perhaps  more  important 
way  in  which  periodicity  affects  and  in  a 
sense  causes  ritual.  We  have  seen  already 
that  out  of  the  space  between  an  impulse 
and  a reaction  there  arises  an  idea  or  “pres- 
entation.” A “presentation”  is,  indeed,  it 
would  seem,  in  its  final  analysis,  only  a de- 
layed, intensified  desire — a desire  of  which 
the  active  satisfaction  is  blocked,  and  which 
runs  over  into  a “presentation.”  An  image 
conceived  “presented,”  what  we  call  an  idea 
is,  as  it  were,  an  act  prefigured. 

Ritual  acts,  then,  which  depend  on  the 
periodicity  of  the  seasons  are  acts  neces- 
sarily delayed.  The  thing  delayed,  expected, 
waited  for,  is  more  and  more  a source  of 
value,  more  and  more  apt  to  precipitate  into 
what  we  call  an  idea,  which  is  in  reality  but 
the  projected  shadow  of  an  unaccomphshed 
action.  More  beautiful  it  may  be,  but  com- 
paratively bloodless,  yet  capable  in  its  turn 
of  acting  as  an  initial  motor  impulse  in  the 


54  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


cycle  of  activity.  It  will  later  (p.  70)  be  seen 
that  these  periodic  festivals  are  the  stuff  of 
which  those  faded,  unaccomplished  actions 
and  desires  which  we  call  gods — ^Attis,  Osiris, 
Dionysos — are  made. 

To  primitive  man,  as  we  have  seen,  beast 
and  bird  and  plant  and  himself  were  not 
sharply  divided,  and  the  periodicity  of  the 
seasons  was  for  all.  It  will  depend  on  man’s 
social  and  geographical  conditions  whether  he 
notices  periodicity  most  in  plants  or  animals. 
If  he  is  nomadie  he  will  note  the  recurrent 
births  of  other  animals  and  of  human  chil- 
dren, and  will  connect  them  with  the  lunar 
year.  But  it  is  at  onee  evident  that,  at  least 
in  Mediterranean  lands,  and  probably  every- 
where, it  is  the  periodicity  of  plants  and 
vegetation  generally  which  depends  on  mois- 
ture, that  is  most  striking.  Plants  die  down 
in  the  heat  of  summer,  trees  shed  their  leaves 
in  autumn,  all  Nature  sleeps  or  dies  in  winter, 
and  awakes  in  spring. 

Sometimes  it  is  the  dying  down  that  at- 
tracts most  attention.  This  is  very  clear  in 
the  rites  of  Adonis,  which  are,  though  he  rises 
again,  essentially  rites  of  lamentation.  The 


SEASONAL  RITES 


55 


details  of  the  ritual  show  this  clearly,  and 
specially  as  already  seen  in  the  cult  of  Osiris. 
For  the  “gardens”  of  Adonis  the  women  took 
baskets  or  pots  filled  with  earth,  and  in  them, 
as  children  sow  cress  now-a-days,  they  planted 
wheat,  fennel,  lettuce,  and  various  kinds  of 
flowers,  which  they  watered  and  tended  for 
eight  days.  In  hot  countries  the  seeds  sprang 
up  rapidly,  but  as  the  plants  had  no  roots 
they  withered  quickly  away.  At  the  end  of 
the  eight  days  they  were  carried  out  with  the 
images  of  the  dead  Adonis  and  thrown  with 
them  into  the  sea  or  into  springs.  The 
“gardens”  of  Adonis  became  the  type  of 
transient  loveliness  and  swift  decay. 

“What  waste  would  it  be,”  says  Plutarch,^ 
“what  inconceivable  waste,  for  God  to  create 
man,  had  he  not  an  immortal  soul.  He 
would  be  like  the  women  who  make  httle 
gardens,  not  less  pleasant  than  the  gardens 
of  Adonis  in  earthen  pots  and  pans;  so 
would  our  souls  blossom  and  flourish  but 
for  a day  in  a soft  and  tender  body  of  flesh 
without  any  firm  and  sohd  root  of  life,  and 
then  be  blasted  and  put  out  in  a moment.” 


1 De  Ser.  Num.  17. 


56  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Celebrated  at  midsummer  as  they  were, 
and  as  the  “gardens  ” were  thrown  into  water, 
it  is  probable  that  the  rites  of  Adonis  may 
have  been,  at  least  in  part,  a rain-charm.  In 
the  long  summer  droughts  of  Palestine  and 
Babylonia  the  longing  for  raiu  must  often 
have  been  intense  enough  to  provoke  expres- 
sion, and  we  remember  (p.  19)  that  the 
Sumerian  Tammuz  was  originally  Dumuzi- 
absu,  “True  Son  of  the  Waters.”  Water  is 
the  first  need  for  vegetation.  Gardens  of 
Adonis  are  still  in  use  in  the  Madras  Presi- 
dency.^ At  the  marriage  of  a Brahman 
“seeds  of  five  or  nine  sorts  are  mixed  and 
sown  in  earthen  pots  which  are  made  specially 
for  the  purpose,  and  are  filled  with  earth. 
Bride  and  bridegroom  water  the  seeds  both 
morning  and  evening  for  four  days;  and  on 
the  fifth  day  the  seedlings  are  thrown,  like  the 
real  gardens  of  Adonis,  into  a tank  or  river.” 
Seasonal  festivals  with  one  and  the  same 
intent — the  promotion  of  fertihty  in  plants, 
animals,  and  man — may  occur  at  almost  any 
time  of  the  year.  At  midsummer,  as  we  have 
seen,  we  may  have  rain-charms;  in  autumn 
we  shall  have  harvest  festivals;  in  late  au- 

1 Frazer,  Adonis,  Attia,  and  Osiris,^  p.  200. 


SEASONAL  RITES 


57 


tiunn  and  early  winter  among  pastoral  peoples 
we  shall  have  festivals,  like  that  of  Martin- 
mas, for  the  blessing  and  purification  of  flocks 
and  herds  when  they  come  in  from  their 
summer  pasture.  In  midwinter  there  will  be 
a Christmas  festival  to  promote  and  protect 
the  sun’s  heat  at  the  winter  solstice.  But  in 
Southern  Europe,  to  which  we  mamly  owe 
our  drama  and  our  art,  the  festival  most 
widely  celebrated,  and  that  of  which  we  know 
most,  is  the  Spriag  Festival,  and  to  that  we 
must  turn.  The  spring  is  to  the  Greek  of 
to-day  the  “anoixis,”  “the  Opening,”  and  it 
was  in  spring  and  with  rites  of  spring  that 
both  Greek  and  Roman  originally  began  their 
year.  It  was  this  spring  festival  that  gave  to 
the  Greek  their  god  Dionysos  and  in  part  his 
drama. 

In  Cambridge  on  May  Day  two  or  three 
puzzled  and  weary  httle  boys  and  girls  are 
still  to  be  sometimes  seen  dragging  round 
a perambulator  with  a doll  on  it  bedecked 
with  ribbons  and  a flower  or  two.  That  is 
all  that  is  left  in  most  parts  of  England  of 
the  Queen  of  the  May  and  Jack-in-the-Green, 
though  here  and  there  a maypole  survives 


58  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


and  is  resuscitated  by  enthusiasts  about  folk- 
dances.  But  in  the  days  of  “Good  Queen 
Bess”  merry  England,  it  would  seem,  was 
lustier.  The  Puritan  Stubbs,  in  his  Anatomie 
of  Abuses,^  thus  describes  the  festival: 

“They  have  twentie  or  fortie  yoke  of  oxen, 
every  oxe  havyng  a sweete  nosegaie  of  flowers 
tyed  on  the  tippe  of  his  homes,  and  these  oxen 
draw  home  this  Maiepoole  (this  stinckying 
idol!  rather),  which  is  covered  all  over  with 
flowers  and  hearbes,  bound  round  aboute  with 
stringes  from  the  top  to  the  bottome,  and 
sometyme  painted  with  variable  colours,  with 
two  or  three  hundred  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, following  it  with  great  devotion.  And 
thus  beyng  reared  up,  with  handkerchiefes 
and  flagges  streaming  on  the  toppe,  they 
strewe  the  ground  about,  binde  greene  boughs 
about  it,  set  up  summer  haules,  bowers,  and 
arbours  hard  by  it.  And  then  fall  they  to 
banquet  and  feast,  to  leap  and  daunce  aboute 
it,  as  the  heathen  people  did  at  the  dedication 
of  their  idolles,  whereof  this  is  a perfect  pat- 
terne  or  rather  the  thyng  itself.” 

The  stem  old  Puritan  was  right,  the  may- 
pole  was  the  perfect  pattern  of  a heathen 
* Quoted  by  Dr.  Franer,  The  Golden  Bough,^  p.  203. 


SEASONAL  RITES 


59 


“idoll,  or  rather  the  thyng  itself.”  He 
would  have  exterminated  it  root  and  branch, 
but  other  and  perhaps  wiser  diviues  took  the 
maypole  into  the  service  of  the  Christian 
Church,  and  still  ^ on  May  Day  in  Saffron 
Walden  the  spring  song  is  heard  with  its 
Christian  moral — 

“A  branch  of  May  we  have  brought  you. 
And  at  your  door  it  stands; 

It  is  a sprout  that  is  well  budded  out. 
The  work  of  our  Lord’s  hands.” 

The  maypole  was  of  course  at  first  no  pole 
cut  down  and  dried.  The  gist  of  it  was  that 
it  should  be  a “sprout,  well  budded  out.” 
The  object  of  carrying  in  the  May  was  to 
bring  the  very  spirit  of  life  and  greenery  into 
the  village.  When  this  was  forgotten,  idle- 
ness or  economy  would  prompt  the  villagers 
to  use  the  same  tree  or  branch  year  after  year. 
In  the  villages  of  Upper  Bavaria  Dr.  Frazer^ 
tells  us  the  maypole  is  renewed  once  every 
three,  four,  or  five  years.  It  is  a fir-tree 
fetched  from  the  forest,  and  amid  all  the 
wreaths,  flags,  and  inscriptions  with  which  it 
is  bedecked,  an  essential  part  is  the  bunch  of 

^ E.  K.  Chambers,  The  Mediceval  Stage,  I,  p.  169. 

* The  Golden  Bought  p.  205. 


60  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


dark  green  foliage  left  at  the  top,  “as  a 
memento  that  in  it  we  have  to  do,  not  with 
a dead  pole,  but  with  a living  tree  from  the 
greenwood.” 

At  the  ritual  of  May  Day  not  only  was 
the  fresh  green  bough  or  tree  carried  into  the 
village,  but  with  it  came  a girl  or  a boy,  the 
Queen  or  King  of  the  May.  Sometimes 
the  tree  itself,  as  in  Russia,  is  dressed  up  in 
woman’s  clothes;  more  often  a real  man  or 
maid,  covered  with  flowers  and  greenery, 
walks  with  the  tree  or  carries  the  bough. 
Thus  in  Thuringia,^  as  soon  as  the  trees  begin 
to  be  green  in  spring,  the  children  assemble 
on  a Sunday  and  go  out  into  the  woods,  where 
they  choose  one  of  their  playmates  to  be 
Little  Leaf  Man.  They  break  branches  from 
the  trees  and  twine  them  about  the  child,  till 
only  his  shoes  are  left  peepiug  out.  Two  of 
the  other  children  lead  him  for  fear  he  should 
stumble.  They  take  him  singing  and  dancmg 
from  house  to  house,  asking  for  gifts  of 
food,  such  as  eggs,  cream,  sausages,  cakes. 
Finally,  they  sprinkle  the  Leaf  Man  with 
water  and  feast  on  the  food.  Such  a Leaf  Man 
is  our  English  Jack-in-the-Green,  a chimney- 

i ^ The  Golden  Bough,'^  p.  213. 


SEASONAL  RITES 


61 


sweeper  who,  as  late  as  1892,  was  seen  by  Dr. 
Rouse  walking  about  at  Cheltenham  encased 
in  a wooden  framework  covered  with  greenery. 

The  bringing  in  of  the  new  leafage  in  the 
form  of  a tree  or  flowers  is  one,  and  perhaps 
the  simplest,  form  of  spring  festival.  It  takes 
httle  notice  of  death  and  winter,  uttering  and 
emphasizing  only  the  desire  for  the  joy  in 
hfe  and  spring.  But  in  other  and  severer 
climates  the  emotion  is  fiercer  and  more  com- 
plex; it  takes  the  form  of  a struggle  or  con- 
test, what  the  Greeks  called  an  agon.  Thus 
on  May  Day  in  the  Isle  of  Man  a Queen  of 
the  May  was  chosen,  and  with  her  twenty 
maids  of  honour,  together  with  a troop  of 
yoimg  men  for  escort.  But  there  was  not 
only  a Queen  of  the  May,  but  a Queen  of  Win- 
ter, a man  dressed  as  a woman,  loaded  with 
warm  clothes  and  wearing  a woollen  hood  and 
fur  tippet.  Winter,  too,  had  attendants  like 
the  Queen  of  the  May.  The  two  troops  met 
and  fought;  and  whichever  Queen  was  taken 
prisoner  had  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  feast. 

In  the  Isle  of  Man  the  real  gist  of  the 
ceremony  is  quite  forgotten,  it  has  become 
a mere  play.  But  among  the  Esquimaux^ 

1 Resumed  from  Dr.  Frazer,  Golden  Bough,^  II,  p.  104. 


62  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


there  is  still  carried  on  a similar  rite,  and 
its  magical  intent  is  clearly  understood.  In 
autumn,  when  the  storms  begin  and  the  long 
and  dismal  Arctic  winter  is  at  hand,  the 
central  Esquimaux  divide  themselves  into  two 
parties  called  the  Ptarmigans  and  the  Ducks. 
The  ptarmigans  are  the  people  born  in  win- 
ter, the  ducks  those  born  in  summer.  They 
stretch  out  a long  rope  of  sealskin.  The 
ducks  take  hold  of  one  end,  the  ptarmigans 
of  the  other,  then  comes  a tug-of-war.  If  the 
ducks  win  there  will  be  fine  weather  through 
the  winter;  if  the  ptarmigans,  bad.  This 
autumn  festival  might,  of  course,  with  equal 
magical  intent  be  performed  in  the  spring, 
but  probably  autumn  is  chosen  because, 
with  the  dread  of  the  Arctic  ice  and  snow  upon 
them,  the  fear  of  winter  is  stronger  than  the 
hope  of  spring. 

The  intense  emotion  towards  the  weather, 
which  breaks  out  into  these  magical  agones, 
or  “contests,”  is  not  very  easy  to  realize. 
The  weather  to  us  now-a-days  for  the  most 
part  damps  a day’s  pleasuring  or  raises  the 
price  of  fruit  and  vegetables.  But  our  main 
supplies  come  to  us  from  other  lands  and 


SEASONAL  RITES 


63 


other  weathers,  and  we  find  it  hard  to  think 
ourselves  back  into  the  state  when  a bad 
harvest  meant  starvation.  The  intensely 
practical  attitude  of  man  towards  the  seasons, 
the  way  that  many  of  these  magical  dramatic 
ceremonies  rose  straight  out  of  the  emotion 
towards  the  food-supply,  would  perhaps  never 
have  been  fully  realized  but  for  the  study  of 
the  food-producing  ceremonies  of  the  Central 
Austrahans. 

The  Central  Australian  spring  is  not  the 
shift  from  winter  to  summer,  from  cold  to 
heat,  but  from  a long,  arid,  and  barren  sea- 
son to  a season  short  and  often  irregular 
in  recurrence  of  torrential  rain  and  sudden 
fertility.  The  dry  steppes  of  Central  Aus- 
tralia are  the  scene  of  a marvellous  transfor- 
mation. In  the  dry  season  all  is  hot  and  des- 
olate, the  ground  has  only  patches  of  wiry 
scrub,  with  an  occasional  parched  acacia 
tree,  all  is  stones  and  sand;  there  is  no  sign 
of  animal  life  save  for  the  thousand  ant-hills. 
Then  suddenly  the  rainy  season  sets  in. 
Torrents  fill  the  rivers,  and  the  sandy  plain  is 
a sheet  of  water.  Almost  as  suddenly  the  rain 
ceases,  the  streams  dry  up,  sucked  in  by  the 
thirsty  ground,  and  as  though  literally  by 


64  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


magic  a luxuriant  vegetation  bursts  forth,  the 
desert  blossoms  as  a rose.  Insects,  lizards, 
frogs,  birds  chirp,  frisk,  and  chatter.  No 
plant  or  animal  can  live  unless  it  live  quickly. 
The  struggle  for  existence  is  keen  and  short. 

It  seems  as  though  the  change  came  and 
life  was  born  by  magic,  and  the  primitive 
Australian  takes  care  that  magic  should  not 
be  wanting,  and  magic  of  the  most  instructive 
kind.  As  soon  as  the  season  of  fertility 
approaches  he  begins  his  rites  with  the 
avowed  object  of  making  and  multiplying  the 
plants,  and  chiefly  the  animals,  by  which  he 
lives;  he  paints  the  figure  of  the  emu  on  the 
sand  with  vermilion  drawn  from  his  own 
blood;  he  puts  on  emu  feathers  and  gazes 
about  him  vacantly  in  stupid  fashion  like  an 
emu  bird;  he  makes  a structure  of  boughs 
like  the  chrysalis  of  a Witchetty  grub — his 
favourite  food,  and  drags  his  body  through 
it  in  pantomime,  gliding  and  shuffling  to  pro- 
mote its  birth.  Here,  difficult  and  intricate 
though  the  ceremonies  are,  and  uncertain  in 
meaning  as  many  of  the  details  must  probably 
always  remain,  the  main  emotional  gist  is 
clear.  It  is  not  that  the  Australian  wonders 
at  and  admires  the  miracle  of  his  spring,  the 


SEASONAL  RITES 


65 


bursting  of  the  flowers  and  the  singing  of 
birds;  it  is  not  that  his  heart  goes  out  in 
gratitude  to  an  All-Father  who  is  the  Giver 
of  all  good  things;  it  is  that,  obedient  to  the 
push  of  life  within  him,  his  impulse  is  towards 
food.  He  must  eat  that  he  and  his  tribe  may 
grow  and  multiply.  It  is  this,  his  will  to 
live,  that  he  utters  and  represents. 

The  savage  utters  his  will  to  live,  his  in- 
tense desire  for  food;  but  it  should  be  noted, 
it  is  desire ^ncLmll  and  longing,  not  certainty^ 
and  satisfaction  that  he  utters.  In  this  re- 
spect it  is  interesting  to  note  that  his  rites 
and  ceremonies,  when  periodic,  are  of  fairly 
long  periods.  Winter  and  summer  are  not 
the  only  natural  periodic  cycles;  there  is  the 
cycle  of  day  and  night,  and  yet  among  primi- 
tive peoples  but  httle  ritual  centres  round 
day  and  night.  The  reason  is  simple.  The 
cycle  of  day  and  night  is  so  short,  it  recurs 
so  frequently,  that  man  naturally  counted 
upon  it  and  had  no  cause  to  be  anxious.  The 
emotional  tension  necessary  to  ritual  was 
absent.  A few  peoples,  e.  g.  the  Egyptians, 
have  practised  daily  incantations  to  bring 
back  the  sun.  Probably  they  had  at  first 


66  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


felt  a real  tension  of  anxiety,  and  then — being 
a people  hidebound  by  custom — had  gone 
on  from  mere  conservatism.  Where  the  sun 
returns  at  a longer  interval,  and  is  even, 
as  among  the  Esquimaux,  hidden  for  the  long 
space  of  six  months,  ritual  inevitably  arises. 
They  play  at  cat’s-cradle  to  catch  the  ball  of 
the  sun  lest  it  should  sink  and  be  lost  for  ever. 

Round  the  moon,  whose  cycle  is  long,  but 
not  too  long,  ritual  very  early  centred,  but 
probably  only  when  its  supposed  influence  on 
vegetation  was  first  surmised.  The  moon,  as 
it  were,  practises  magic  herself;  she  waxes 
and  wanes,  and  with  her,  man  thinks,  all  the 
vegetable  kingdom  waxes  and  wanes  too,  all 
but  the  lawless  onion.  The  moon,  Plutarch  ^ 
tells  us,  is  fertile  in  its  light  and  contains 
moisture,  it  is  kindly  to  the  young  of  animals 
and  to  the  new  shoots  of  plants.  Even 
Bacon  ^ held  that  observations  of  the  moon 
with  a view  to  planting  and  sowing  and  the 
grafting  of  trees  were  “not  altogether  frivo- 
lous.” It  cannot  too  often  be  remembered 
that  primitive  man  has  but  little,  if  any,  in- 
terest in  sun  and  moon  and  heavenly  bodies 
for  their  inherent  beauty  or  wonder;  he  cares 
* De  la.  et  Os.,  p.  367.  * De  Aug.  Seient.,  Ill,  4. 


SEASONAL  RITES 


67 


for  them,  he  holds  them  sacred,  he  performs 
rites  in  relation  to  them  mainly  when  he 
notes  that  they  bring  the  seasons,  and  he^ 
cares  for  the  seasons  mainly  because  they 
bring  him  food.  A season  is  to  him  as  a Hora 
was  at  first  to  the  Greeks,  the  fruits  of  a season, 
what  our  farmers  would  call  “a  good  year.” 

The  sun,  then,  had  no  ritual  till  it  was  seen 
that  he  led  in  the  seasons;  but  long  before 
that  was  known,  it  was  seen  that  the  seasons 
were  annual,  that  they  went  round  in  a ring;  ^ 
and  because  that  annual  ring  was  long  in 
revolving,  great  was  man’s  hope  and  fear  in 
the  winter,  great  his  relief  and  joy  in  the 
spring.  It  was  literally  a matter  of  death 
and  life,  and  it  was  as  death  and  life  that  he 
sometimes  represented  it,  as  we  have  seen  in 
the  figures  of  Adonis  and  Osiris. 

Adonis  and  Osiris  have  their  modern 
parallels,  who  leave  us  in  no  doubt  as  to  the 
meaning  of  their  figures.  Thus  on  the  1st 
of  March  in  Thiiringen  a ceremony  is  per- 
formed called  “Driving  out  the  Death.”  ^ 
The  young  people  make  up  a figure  of  straw, 
dress  it  in  old  clothes,  carry  it  out  and  throw 
it  into  the  river.  Then  they  come  back,  tell 


68  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  good  news  to  the  village,  and  are  given 
eggs  and  food  as  a reward.  In  Bohemia  the 
children  carry  out  a straw  puppet  and  burn 
it.  While  they  are  burning  it  they  sing — 

“Now  carry  we  Death  out  of  the  village, 
The  new  Summer  into  the  village. 
Welcome,  dear  Summer, 

Green  little  corn.” 

In  other  parts  of  Bohemia  the  song  varies; 
it  is  not  Summer  that  comes  back  but  Life. 

“We  have  carried  away  Death, 

And  brought  back  Life.” 

In  both  these  cases  it  is  interesting  to  note 
that  though  Death  is  dramatically  carried 
out,  the  coming  back  of  Life  is  only  an- 
nounced, not  enacted. 

Often,  and  it  would  seem  quite  naturally, 
the  puppet  representing  Death  or  Winter  is 
reviled  and  roughly  handled,  or  pelted  with 
stones,  and  treated  in  some  way  as  a sort  of 
scapegoat.  But  in  not  a few  cases,  and  these 
are  of  special  interest,  it  seems  to  be  the  seat 
of  a sort  of  magical  potency  which  can  be 
and  is  transferred  to  the  figure  of  Summer  or 
Life,  thus  causing,  as  it  were,  a sort  of  Resur- 
rection. In  Lusatia  the  women  only  carry 


SEASONAL  RITES 


69 


out  the  Death.  They  are  dressed  in  black 
themselves  as  mourners,  but  the  puppet  of 
straw  which  they  dress  up  as  the  Death  wears 
a white  shirt.  They  carry  it  to  the  village 
boundary,  followed  by  boys  throwing  stones, 
and  there  tear  it  to  pieces.  Then  they  cut 
down  a tree  and  dress  it  in  the  white  shirt 
of  the  Death  and  carry  it  home  singing. 

So  at  the  Feast  of  the  Ascension  in  Tran- 
sylvania. After  morning  service  the  girls  of 
the  village  dress  up  the  Death;  they  tie  a 
threshed-out  sheaf  of  corn  into  a rough  copy 
of  a head  and  body,  and  stick  a broomstick 
through  the  body  for  arms.  Then  they 
dress  the  figure  up  in  the  ordinary  holiday 
clothes  of  a peasant  girl — a red  hood,  silver 
brooches,  and  ribbons  galore.  They  put  the 
Death  at  an  open  window  that  all  the  people 
when  they  go  to  vespers  may  see  it.  Vespers 
over,  two  girls  take  the  Death  by  the  arms 
and  walk  in  front;  the  rest  follow.  They 
sing  an  ordinary  church  hymn.  Having 
wound  through  the  village  they  go  to  another 
house,  shut  out  the  boys,  strip  the  Death  of 
its  clothes,  and  throw  the  straw  body  out  of 
the  window  to  the  boys,  who  fling  it  into  a 
river.  Then  one  of  the  girls  is  dressed  in  the 


70  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Death’s  discarded  clothes,  and  the  procession 
again  winds  through  the  village.  The  same 
hymn  is  sung.  Thus  it  is  clear  that  the  girl 
is  a sort  of  resuscitated  Death.  This  resur- 
rection aspect,  this  passing  of  the  old  into  the 
new,  will  be  seen  to  be  of  great  ritual  import- 
ance when  we  come  to  Dionysos  and  the 
Dithyramb. 

These  ceremonies  of  Death  and  Life  are 
more  complex  than  the  simple  carrying  in 
of  green  boughs  or  even  the  dancing  round 
maypoles.  When  we  have  these  figures, 
these  “impersonations,”  we  are  getting  away 
from  the  merely  emotional  dance,  from  the 
domain  of  simple  psychological  motor  dis- 
charge to  something  that  is  very  like  rude 
art,  at  all  events  to  personification.  On  this 
question  of  personification,  in  which  so  much 
of  art  and  religion  has  its  roots,  it  is  all- 
important  to  be  clear. 

In  discussions  on  such  primitive  rites  as 
“Carrying  out  the  Death,”  “Bringing  in 
Summer,”  we  are  often  told  that  the  puppet 
of  the  girl  is  carried  round,  buried,  burnt; 
brought  back,  because  it  “personifies  the 
Spirit  of  Vegetation,”  or  it  “embodies  the 


SEASONAL  RITES 


71 


Spirit  of  Slimmer.”  The  Spirit  of  Vegeta- 
tion is  “incarnate  in  the  puppet.”  We  are 
led,  by  this  way  of  speaking,  to  suppose  that 
the  savage  or  the  villager  first  forms  an  idea 
or  conception  of  a Spirit  of  Vegetation  and 
then  later  “embodies”  it.  We  naturally 
wonder  that  he  should  perform  a mental  act 
so  high  and  difficult  as  abstraction. 

A very  little  consideration  shows  that  he 
performs  at  first  no  abstraction  at  all;  ab- 
straction is  foreign  to  his  mental  habit.  He 
begins  with  a vague  excited  dance  to  relieve 
his  emotion.  That  dance  has,  probably  al- 
most from  the  first,  a leader;  the  dancers 
choose  an  actual  person,  and  he  is  the  root  and 
ground  of  personification.  There  is  nothing 
mysterious  about  the  process;  the  leader  does 
not  “embody”  a previously  conceived  idea, 
rather  he  begets  it.  From  his  personality 
springs  the  personification.  The  abstract 
idea  arises  from  the  only  thing  it  possibly  can 
arise  from,  the  concrete  fact.  Without  per- 
ception there  is  no  conception.  We  noted  in 
speaking  of  dances  (p.  43)  how  the  dance  got 
generahzed;  how  from  many  commemora- 
tions of  actual  hunts  and  battles  there  arose 
the  hunt  dance  and  the  war  dance.  So,  from 


72  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


many  actual  living  personal  May  Queens  and 
Deaths,  from  many  actual  men  and  women 
decked  with  leaves,  or  trees  dressed  up  as 
men  and  women,  arises  the  Tree  Spirit,  the 
Vegetation  Spirit,  the  Death. 

At  the  back,  then,  of  the  fact  of  personifi- 
cation lies  the  fact  that  the  emotion  is  felt 
collectively,  the  rite  is  performed  by  a band 
or  chorus  who  dance  together  with  a common 
leader.  Round  that  leader  the  emotion  cen- 
tres, When  there  is  an  act  of  Carrying-out 
or  Bringing-in  he  either  is  himself  the  puppet 
or  he  carries  it.  Emotion  is  of  the  whole 
band;  drama  doing  tends  to  focus  on  the 
leader.  This  leader,  this  focus,  is  then  re- 
membered, thought  of,  imaged;  from  being 
perceived  year  by  year,  he  is  finally  conceived ; 
but  his  basis  is  always  in  actual  fact  of  which 
he  is  but  the  reflection. 

Had  there  been  no  periodic  festivals,  per- 
sonification might  long  have  halted.  But 
it  is  easy  to  see  that  a recurrent  perception 
helps  to  form  a permanent  abstract  concep- 
tion. The  different  actual  recurrent  May 
Kings  and  “Deaths,”  because  they  recur, 
get  a sort  of  permanent  life  of  their  own  and 
become  beings  apart.  In  this  way  a concep- 


SEASONAL  RITES 


73 


tion,  a kind  of  daimon,  or  spirit,  is  fashioned, 
who  dies  and  lives  again  in  a perpetual  cycle. 
The  periodic  festival  begets  a kind  of  not 
immortal,  but  perennial,  god. 

Yet  the  faculty  of  conception  is  but  dim 
and  feeble  in  the  mind  even  of  the  peasant 
to-day;  his  function  is  to  perceive  the  actual 
fact  year  by  year,  and  to  feel  about  it.  Per- 
haps a simple  instance  best  makes  this  clear. 
The  Greek  Church  does  not  gladly  suffer 
images  in  the  round,  though  she  delights  in 
picture-images,  eikons.  But  at  her  great 
spring  festival  of  Easter  she  makes,  in  the 
remote  villages,  concession  to  a strong,  per- 
haps imperative,  popular  need;  she  allows  an 
image,  an  actual  idol,  of  the  dead  Christ  to 
be  laid  in  the  tomb  that  it  may  rise  again. 
A traveller  in  Euboea  ^ during  Holy  Week 
had  been  struck  by  the  genuine  grief  shown 
at  the  Good  Friday  services.  On  Easter  Eve 
there  was  the  same  general  gloom  and  de- 
spondency, and  he  asked  an  old  woman  why 
it  was.  She  answered:  “Of  course  I am 
anxious;  for  if  Christ  does  not  rise  to-morrow, 
we  shall  have  no  corn  this  year.” 

^ J.  C.  Lawson,  Modem  Greek  Folk-lore  and  Ancient 
Religion,  p.  573. 


74  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


The  old  woman’s  state  of  mind  is  fairly 
clear.  Her  emotion  is  the  old  emotion,  not 
sorrow  for  the  Christ  the  Son  of  Mary,  but 
fear,  imminent  fear  for  the  failure  of  food. 
The  Christ  again  is  not  the  historical  Christ 
of  Judaea,  still  less  the  incarnation  of  the 
Godhead  proceeding  from  the  Father;  he  is 
the  actual  figure  fashioned  by  his  village 
chorus  and  laid  by  the  priests,  the  leaders  of 
that  chorus,  in  the  local  sepulchre. 

So  far,  then,  we  have  seen  that  the  vague 
emotional  dance  tends  to  become  a periodic 
rite,  performed  at  regular  intervals.  The  peri- 
odic rite  may  occur  at  any  date  of  impor- 
tance to  the  food-supply  of  the  community, 
in  sununer,  in  winter,  at  the  coming  of  the 
annual  rains,  or  the  regular  rising  of  a river. 
Among  Mediterranean  peoples,  both  in  an- 
cient days  and  at  the  present  time,  the  Spring 
Festival  arrests  attention.  Having  learnt  the 
general  characteristics  of  this  Spring  Festival, 
we  have  now  to  turn  to  one  particular  case, 
the  Spring  Festival  of  the  Greeks.  This  is  all- 
important  to  us  because,  as  will  be  seen,  from 
the  ritual  of  this  and  kindred  festivals  arose, 
we  believe,  a great  form  of  Art,  the  Greek 
drama. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE 

The  tragedies  of  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides  were  performed  at  Athens  at  a 
festival  known  as  the  Great  Dionysia.  This 
took  place  early  in  April,  so  that  the  time 
itself  makes  us  suspect  that  its  ceremonies 
were  connected  with  the  spring.  But  we 
have  more  certain  evidence.  Aristotle,  in 
his  treatise  on  the  Art  of  Poetry,  raises  the 
question  of  the  origin  of  the  drama.  He  was 
not  specially  interested  in  primitive  ritual; 
beast  dances  and  spriug  mummeries  might 
even  have  seemed  to  him  mere  savagery,  the 
lowest  form  of  “imitation”;  but  he  divined 
that  a structure  so  complex  as  Greek  tragedy 
must  have  arisen  out  of  a simpler  form;  he 
saw,  or  felt,  in  fact,  that  art  had  in  some  way 
risen  out  of  ritual,  and  he  has  left  us  a 
memorable  statement. 

In  describing  the  “Carrying-out  of  Sum- 
mer” we  saw  that  the  element  of  real  drama, 
75 


76  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


real  impersonation,  began  with  the  leaders  of 
the  band,  with  the  Queen  of  the  May,  and  with 
the  “Death”  or  the  “Winter.”  Great  is  our 
delight  when  we  find  that  for  Greek  drama 
Aristotle  ^ divined  a like  beginning.  He  says: 

“Tragedy — as  also  Comedy — was  at  first 
mere  improvisation — the  one  (tragedy)  origi- 
nated with  the  leaders  of  the  Dithyramb.” 

The  further  question  faces  us:  What  was 
the  Dithyramb?  We  shall  find  to  our  joy  that 
this  obscure-sounding  Dithyramb,  though 
before  Aristotle’s  time  it  had  taken  literary 
form,  was  in  origin  a festival  closely  akin 
to  those  we  have  just  been  discussing.  The 
Dithyramb  was,  to  begin  with,  a spring 
ritual;  and  when  Aristotle  tells  us  tragedy 
arose  out  of  the  Dithyramb,  he  gives  us, 
though  perhaps  half  unconsciously,  a clear 
instance  of  a splendid  art  that  arose  from  the 
simplest  of  rites;  he  plants  our  theory  of  the 
connection  of  art  with  ritual  firmly  with  its 
feet  on  historical  ground. 

When  we  use  the  word  “dithyrambic”  we 
certainly  do  not  ordinarily  think  of  spring. 

* Poetics,  IV,  12. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  77 


We  say  a style  is  “dithyrambic”  when  it  is 
unmeasured,  too  ornate,  impassioned,  flow- 
ery. The  Greeks  themselves  had  forgotten 
that  the  word  Dithyramb  meant  a leaping, 
inspired  dance.  But  they  had  not  forgotten 
on  what  occasion  that  dance  was  danced. 
Pindar  wrote  a Dithyramb  for  the  Dionysiac 
festival  at  Athens,  and  his  song  is  full  of 
springtime  and  flowers.  He  bids  all  the  gods 
come  to  Athens  to  dance  flower-crowned. 

“Look  upon  the  dance,  Olympians;  send 
us  the  grace  of  Victory,  ye  gods  who  come  to 
the  heart  of  our  city,  where  many  feet  are 
treading  and  incense  steams;  in  sacred 
Athens  come  to  the  holy  centre-stone.  Take 
your  portion  of  garlands  pansy-twined,  liba- 
tions poured  from  the  culling  of  spring.  . . . 

“Come  hither  to  the  god  with  ivy  bound. 
Bromios  we  mortals  name  Him,  and  Him  of 
the  mighty  Voice.  . . . The  clear  signs  of  his 
Fulfilment  are  not  hidden,  whensoever  the 
chamber  of  the  purple-robed  Hours  is  opened, 
and  nectarous  flowers  lead  in  the  fragrant 
spring.  Then,  then,  are  flung  over  the  im- 
mortal Earth,  lovely  petals  of  pansies,  and 
roses  are  amid  our  hair;  and  voices  of  song 


78  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


are  loud  among  the  pipes,  the  dancing-floors 
are  loud  with  the  calling  of  crowned  Semele.” 

Bromios,  “He  of  the  loud  cry,”  is  a title  of 
Dionysos.  Semele  is  his  mother,  the  Earth; 
we  keep  her  name  in  Nova  Zembla,  “New 
Earth.”  The  song  might  have  been  sung  at 
a “Carrying-m  of  Summer.”  The  Horse, 
the  Seasons,  a chorus  of  maidens,  lead  in  the 
figure  of  Spring,  the  Queen  of  the  May,  and 
they  call  to  Mother  Earth  to  wake,  to  rise  up 
from  the  earth,  flower-crowned. 

You  may  bring  back  the  life  of  the  Spring 
in  the  form  of  a tree  or  a maiden,  or  you  may 
summon  her  to  rise  from  the  sleeping  Earth. 
In  Greek  mythology  we  are  most  familiar  with 
the  Rising-up  form.  Persephone,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Demeter,  is  carried  below  the  Earth, 
and  rises  up  again  year  by  year.  On  Greek 
vase-paintings  ^ the  scene  occurs  again  and 
again.  A mound  of  earth  is  represented, 
sometimes  surmounted  by  a tree;  out  of  the 
mound  a woman’s  figure  rises;  and  all  about 
the  mound  are  figures  of  dancing  daemons 
waiting  to  welcome  her. 

All  this  is  not  mere  late  poetry  and  art. 

* See  my  Themis,  p.  419.  (1912.) 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  79 


It  is  the  primitive  art  and  poetry  that  comes 
straight  out  of  ritual,  out  of  actual  “things 
done,”  dromena.  In  the  village  of  Megara, 
near  Athens,  the  very  place  where  to-day  on 
Easter  Tuesday  the  hills  are  covered  with 
throngs  of  dancing  men,  and  specially  women, 
Pausanias  ^ saw  near  the  City  Hearth  a rock 
called  “ Anak  ethra,  ‘Place  of  Calling-up,’ 
because,  if  any  one  will  believe  it,  when  she 
was  wandering  in  search  of  her  daughter. 
Demeter  called  her  up  there”;  and  he  adds: 
“The  women  to  this  day  perform  rites  an- 
alogous to  the  story  told.” 

These  rites  of  “ Calling  up  ” must  have  been 
spring  rites,  in  which,  in  some  pantomimic 
dance,  the  uprising  of  the  Earth  Spirit  was 
enacted. 

Another  festival  of  Uprising  is  perhaps  more 
primitive  and  instructive,  because  it  is  near 
akin  to  the  “Carrying  out  of  Winter,”  and 
also  because  it  shows  clearly  the  close  con- 
nection of  these  rites  with  the  food-supply. 
Plutarch^  tells  us  of  a festival  held  every 
nine  years  at  Delphi.  It  was  called  from  the 
name  of  the  puppet  used  Charila,  a word 
which  originally  meant  Spring-Maiden,  and 
I,  43,  2.  * Quaest.  Grmc.  XII. 


80  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


is  connected  with  the  Russian  word  yaro, 
“Spring,”  and  is  also  akin  to  the  Greek 
Charis,  “grace,”  in  the  sense  of  increase, 
“Give  us  all  graced  The  rites  of  Charila, 
the  Gracious  One,  the  Spring-Maiden,  were 
as  follows: 

“The  king  presided  and  made  a distribu- 
tion in  public  of  grain  and  pulse  to  all,  both 
citizens  and  strangers.  And  the  child-image 
of  Charila  is  brought  in.  When  they  had  all 
received  their  share,  the  king  struck  the  image 
with  his  sandal,  the  leader  of  the  Thyiades 
lifted  the  image  and  took  it  away  to  a precipi- 
tous place,  and  there  tied  a rope  round  the 
neck  of  the  image  and  buried  it.” 

Mr.  Calderon  has  shown  that  very  similar 
rites  go  on  to-day  in  Bulgaria  in  honour  of 
Yarilo,  the  Spring  God. 

The  image  is  beaten,  insulted,  let  down  into 
some  cleft  or  cave.  It  is  clearly  a “Carrying 
out  the  Death,”  though  we  do  not  know  the 
exact  date  at  which  it  was  celebrated.  It  had 
its  sequel  in  another  festival  at  Delphi  called 
Herois,  or  the  “Heroine.”  Plutarch^  says  it 
was  too  mystical  and  secret  to  describe,  but 
he  lets  us  know  the  main  gist. 

* Oj>.  cit. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  81 


“Most  of  the  ceremonies  of  the  Herois  have 
a mystical  reason  which  is  known  to  the 
Thyiades,  but  from  the  rites  that  are  done 
in  public,  one  may  conjecture  it  to  be  a 
‘Bringing  up  of  Semele.’” 

Some  one  or  something,  a real  woman, 
or  more  likely  the  buried  puppet  Charila, 
the  Spring-Maiden,  was  brought  up  from  the 
ground  to  enact  and  magically  induce  the 
coming  of  Spring. 

These  ceremonies  of  beating,  driving  out, 
burying,  have  all  with  the  Greeks,  as  with 
the  savage  and  the  modern  peasant,  but 
one  real  object:  to  get  rid  of  the  season  that 
is  bad  for  food,  to  bring  in  and  revive  the  new 
supply.  This  comes  out  very  clearly  in  a 
ceremony  that  went  on  down  to  Plutarch’s 
time,  and  he  tells  us^  it  was  “ancestral.” 
It  was  called  “the  Driving  out  of  Ox-hunger.” 
By  Ox-hunger  was  meant  any  great  ravenous 
hunger,  and  the  very  intensity  and  monstros- 
ity of  the  word  takes  us  back  to  days  when 
famine  was  a grim  reality.  When  Plutarch 
was  archon  he  had,  as  chief  official,  to  per- 
form the  ceremony  at  the  Prytaneion,  or 
• Ouwst.  Symp.,  693  f. 


82  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Common  Hearth.  A slave  was  taken,  beaten 
with  rods  of  a magical  plant,  and  driven  out 
of  doors  to  the  words:  “Out  with  Ox-hunger! 
In  with  Wealth  and  Health!”  Here  we  see 
the  actual  sensation,  or  emotion,  of  ravenous 
hunger  gets  a name,  and  thereby  a person- 
ality, though  a less  completely  abstracted 
one  than  Death  or  Summer.  We  do  not  know 
that  the  ceremony  of  Driving  out  Ox-hunger 
was  performed  in  the  spring,  it  is  only  in- 
stanced here  because,  more  plainly  even 
than  the  Charila,  when  the  king  distributes 
pulse  and  peas,  it  shows  the  relation  of  an- 
cient mimic  ritual  to  food-supply. 

If  we  keep  clearly  in  mind  the  object  rather 
than  the  exact  date  of  the  Spring  Song  we  shall 
avoid  many  difficulties.  A Dithyramb  was 
sung  at  Delphi  through  the  winter  months, 
which  at  first  seems  odd.  But  we  must  re- 
member that  among  agricultural  peoples  the 
performance  of  magical  ceremonies  to  pro- 
mote fertility  and  the  food  supply  may  begin 
at  any  moment  after  the  earth  is  ploughed  and 
the  seed  sown.  The  sowing  of  the  seed  is  its 
death  and  burial;  “that  which  thou  sowest 
is  not  quickened  except  it  die.”  When  the 
death  and  burial  are  once  accomplished  the 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  83 


hope  of  resurrection  and  new  birth  begins, 
and  with  the  hope  the  magical  ceremonies 
that  may  help  to  fulfil  that  hope.  The  Sun 
is  new-born  in  midwinter,  at  the  solstice, 
and  our  “New”  year  follows,  yet  it  is  in  the 
spring  that,  to  this  day,  we  keep  our  great 
resurrection  festival. 

We  return  to  our  argument,  holding 
steadily  in  our  minds  this  connection.  The 
Dithyramb  is  a Spring  Song  at  a Spring 
Festival,  and  the  importance  of  the  Spring 
Festival  is  that  it  magically  promotes  the 
food-supply. 

Do  we  know  any  more  about  the  Dithy- 
ramb.? Happily  yes,  and  the  next  point  is 
as  cmious  as  significant. 

Pindar,  in  one  of  his  Odes,  asks  a strange 
question: 

“ Whence  did  appear  the  Graces  of  Dionysos, 
With  the  Bull-driving  Dithyramb.?” 

Scholars  have  broken  their  own  heads  and 
one  another’s  to  find  a meaning  and  an 
answer  to  the  odd  query.  It  is  only  quite 
lately  that  they  have  come  at  all  to  see  that 
the  Dithyramb  was  a Spring  Song,  a primi- 


84  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


tive  rite.  Formerly  it  was  considered  to  be  a 
rather  elaborate  form  of  lyric  poetry  invented 
comparatively  late.  But,  even  allowing  it 
is  the  Spring  Song,  are  we  much  further 
Why  should  the  Dithyramb  be  bull-driving.'^ 
How  can  driving  a Bull  help  the  spring  to 
come.^  And,  above  all,  what  are  the  “slen- 
der-ankled”  Graces  doing,  helping  to  drive 
the  great  unwieldy  Bull? 

The  difficulty  about  the  Graces,  or  Charites, 
as  the  Greeks  called  them,  is  soon  settled. 
They  are  the  Seasons,  or  “Hours,”  and  the 
chief  Season,  or  Hour,  was  Spring  herself. 
They  are  called  Charites,  or  Graces,  because 
they  are,  in  the  words  of  the  Collect,  the 
“Givers  of  all  grace,”  that  is,  of  all  increase 
physical  and  spiritual.  But  why  do  they 
want  to  come  driving  in  a Bull?  It  is  easy  to 
see  why  the  Givers  of  all  grace  lead  the  Dithy- 
ramb, the  Spring  Song;  their  coming,  with 
their  “fruits  in  due  season”  is  the  very  gist 
of  the  Dithyramb ; but  why  is  the  Dithyramb 
“bull-driving”!  Is  this  a mere  “poetical” 
epithet?  If  it  is,  it  is  not  particularly 
poetical. 

But  Pindar  is  not,  we  now  know,  merely 
being  “poetical,”  which  amounts,  according 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  85 


to  some  scholars,  to  meaning  anything  or 
nothing.  He  is  describing,  alluding  to,  an 
actual  rite  or  dromenon  in  which  a Bull  is 
summoned  and  driven  to  come  in  spring. 
About  that  we  must  be  clear.  Plutarch,  the 
first  anthropologist,  wrote  a little  treatise 
called  Greek  Questions,  in  which  he  tells  us  all 
the  strange  out-of-the-way  rites  and  customs 
he  saw  in  Greece,  and  then  asks  himself  what 
they  meant.  In  his  36th  Question  he  asks: 
“Why  do  the  women  of  Elis  summon  Diony- 
sos in  their  hymns  to  be  present  with  them 
with  his  bull-foot.?”  And  then,  by  a piece 
of  luck  that  almost  makes  one’s  heart  stand 
still,  he  gives  us  the  very  words  of  the  little 
ritual  hymn  the  women  sang,  our  earliest 
“Bull-driving”  Spring  Song: 

“In  Spring-time,^  O Dionysos, 

To  thy  holy  temple  come; 

To  Elis  with  thy  Graces, 

Rushing  with  thy  bull-foot,  come, 
Noble  Bull,  Noble  Bull.” 

It  is  a strange  primitive  picture — the  holy 
women  standing  in  springtime  in  front  of 

* The  words  “in  Spring-time”  depend  on  an  emenda* 
tion  to  me  convincing.  See  my  Themis,  p.  205,  note  1. 


86  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  temple,  summoning  the  Bull;  and  the 
Bull,  garlanded  and  filleted,  rushing  to- 
wards them,  driven  by  the  Graces,  probably 
three  real  women,  three  Queens  of  the  May, 
wreathed  and  flower-bedecked.  But  what 
does  it  mean.? 

Plutarch  tries  to  answer  his  own  question, 
and  half,  in  a dim,  confused  fashion,  succeeds. 
“Is  it,”  he  suggests,  “that  some  entitle  the 
god  as  ‘Bom  of  a Bull’  and  as  a ‘Bull’ 
himself?  ...  or  is  it  that  many  hold  the  god 
is  the  beginner  of  sowing  and  ploughing?” 
We  have  seen  how  a kind  of  daimon,  or  spirit, 
of  Winter  or  Summer  arose  from  an  actual 
tree  or  maid  or  man  disguised  year  by  year 
as  a tree.  Did  the  god  Dionysos  take  his 
rise  in  like  fashion  from  the  driving  and 
summoning  year  by  year  of  some  holy  Bull? 

First,  we  must  notice  that  it  was  not  only 
at  Elis  that  a holy  Bull  appears  at  the  Spring 
Festival.  Plutarch  asks  another  instructive 
Question:^  “Who  among  the  Delphians  is 
the  Sanctifier?”  And  we  find  to  our  amaze- 
ment that  the  sanctifier  is  a Bull.  A Bull 
who  not  only  is  holy  himself,  but  is  so  holy 
that  he  has  power  to  make  others  holy,  he 


‘IX. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  87 


is  the  Sanctifier;  and,  most  important  for 
us,  he  sanctifies  by  his  death  in  the  month 
Bysios,  the  month  that  fell,  Plutarch  tells 
us,  “at  the  beginning  of  spring,  the  time  of 
the  blossoming  of  many  plants. 

We  do  not  hear  that  the  “Sanctifier”  at 
Delphi  was  “driven,”  but  in  all  probability 
he  was  led  from  house  to  house,  that  every 
one  might  partake  in  the  sanctity  that  sim- 
ply exuded  from  him.  At  Magnesia,^  a city 
of  Asia  Minor,  we  have  more  particulars. 
There,  at  the  annual  fair  year  by  year  the 
stewards  of  the  city  bought  a Bull,  “the  finest 
that  could  be  got,”  and  at  the  new  moon  of 
the  month  at  the  beginning  of  seedtime  they 
dedicated  it,  for  the  city’s  welfare.  The 
Bull’s  sanctified  life  began  with  the  opening 
of  the  agricultural  year,  whether  with  the 
spring  or  the  autumn  ploughing  we  do  not 
know.  The  dedication  of  the  Bull  was  a high 
solemnity.  He  was  led  in  procession,  at  the 
head  of  which  went  the  chief  priest  and  priest- 
ess of  the  city.  With  them  went  a herald 
and  the  sacrificer,  and  two  bands  of  youths 
and  maidens.  So  holy  was  the  Bull  that 
nothing  imlucky  might  come  near  him;  the 
^ See  my  Themis,  p.  151. 


88  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


youths  and  maidens  must  have  both  their 
parents  alive,  they  must  not  have  been  under 
the  tahoo,  the  infection,  of  death.  The  her- 
ald pronounced  aloud  a prayer  for  “the 
safety  of  the  city  and  the  land,  and  the 
citizens,  and  the  women  and  children,  for 
peace  and  wealth,  and  for  the  bringing  forth 
of  grain  and  of  all  the  other  fruits,  and  of 
cattle.”  All  this  longing  for  fertility,  for  food 
and  children,  focuses  round  the  holy  Bull, 
whose  holiness  is  his  strength  and  fruitfulness. 

The  Bull  thus  solemnly  set  apart,  charged 
as  it  were  with  the  luck  of  the  whole  people, 
is  fed  at  the  public  cost.  The  official  charged 
with  his  keep  has  to  drive  him  into  the 
market-place,  and  “it  is  good  for  those  corn- 
merchants  who  give  the  Bull  grain  as  a gift,” 
good  for  them  because  they  are  feeding, 
nurturing,  the  luck  of  the  State,  which  is 
their  own  luck.  So  through  autumn  and 
winter  the  Bull  lives  on,  but  early  in  April 
the  end  comes.  Again  a great  procession  is 
led  forth,  the  senate  and  the  priests  walk  in 
it,  and  with  them  come  representatives  of 
each  class  of  the  State — children  and  young 
boys,  and  youths  just  come  to  manhood, 
epheboi,  as  the  Greeks  called  them.  The  Bull 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  89 


is  sacrificed,  and  why?  Why  must  a thing 
so  holy  die?  Why  not  live  out  the  term  of 
his  life?  He  dies  because  he  is  so  holy,  that 
he  may  give  his  holiness,  his  strength,  his 
life,  just  at  the  moment  it  is  holiest,  to  his 
people. 

“When  they  shall  have  sacrificed  the  Bull, 
let  them  divide  it  up  among  those  who  took 
part  in  the  procession.” 

The  mandate  is  clear.  The  procession 
included  representatives  of  the  whole  State. 
The  holy  fiesh  is  not  offered  to  a god,  it  is 
eaten — to  every  man  his  portion — ^by  each 
and  every  citizen,  that  he  may  get  his  share 
of  the  strength  of  the  Bull,  of  the  luck  of  the 
State. 

Now  at  Magnesia,  after  the  holy  civic 
communion,  the  meal  shared,  we  hear  no 
more.  Next  year  a fresh  Bull  will  be  chosen, 
and  the  cycle  begin  again.  But  at  Athens 
at  the  annual  “Ox-murder,”  the  Bouphonia, 
as  it  was  called,  the  scene  did  not  so  close. 
The  ox  was  slain  with  all  solemnity,  and  all 
those  present  partook  of  the  flesh,  and  then 


90  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


— the  hide  was  stuffed  with  straw  and  sewed 
up,  and  next  the  stuffed  animal  was  set  on 
its  feet  and  yoked  to  a plough  as  though  it 
were  ploughing.  The  Death  is  followed  by 
a Resurrection.  Now  this  is  all-important. 
We  are  so  accustomed  to  think  of  sacrifice  as 
the  death,  the  giving  up,  the  renouncing  of 
something.  But  sacrifice  does  not  mean 
“death”  at  all.  It  means  making  holy, 
sanctifying;  and  holiness  was  to  primitive 
man  just  special  strength  and  life.  What 
they  wanted  from  the  Bull  was  just  that 
special  life  and  strength  which  all  the  year 
long  they  had  put  into  him,  and  nourished 
and  fostered.  That  life  was  in  his  blood. 
They  could  not  eat  that  flesh  nor  drink  that 
blood  unless  they  killed  him.  So  he  must  die. 
But  it  was  not  to  give  him  up  to  the  gods  that 
they  killed  him,  not  to  “sacrifice”  him  in  our 
sense,  but  to  have  him,  keep  him,  eat  him, 
live  hy  him  and  through  him,  by  his  grace. 

And  so  this  killing  of  the  sacred  beast  was 
always  a terrible  thing,  a thing  they  fain 
would  have  shirked.  They  fled  away  after 
the  deed,  not  looking  backwards;  they  pub- 
licly tried  and  condemned  the  axe  that  struck 
the  blow.  But  their  best  hope,  their  strong- 


SPEING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  91 


est  desire,  was  that  he  had  not,  could  not, 
really  have  died.  So  this  intense  desire 
uttered  itself  in  the  dromenon  of  his  resurrec- 
tion. If  he  did  not  rise  again,  how  could  they 
plough  and  sow  again  next  year.?*  He  must 
hve  again,  he  should,  he  did. 

The  Athenians  were  a httle  ashamed  of 
their  “Ox-murder,”  with  its  grotesque  panto- 
mime of  the  stuffed,  resurrected  beast.  Just 
so  some  of  us  now-a-days  are  getting  a little 
shy  of  dehberately  cursing  our  neighbours 
on  Ash  Wednesday.  They  probably  did  not 
feel  very  keenly  about  their  food-supply,  they 
thought  their  daily  dinner  was  secure.  Any- 
how the  emotion  that  had  issued  in  the  pan- 
tomime was  dead,  though  from  sheer  habit 
the  pantomime  went  on.  Probably  some  of 
the  less  educated  among  them  thought  there 
“might  be  something  in  it,”  and  anyhow  it 
was  “as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side.”  The 
queer  ceremony  had  got  associated  with  the 
worship  of  Olympian  Zeus,  and  with  him  you 
must  reckon.  Then  perhaps  your  brother- 
in-law  was  the  Ox-striker,  and  anyhow  it  was 
desirable  that  the  women  should  go;  some  of 
the  well-born  girls  had  to  act  as  water-carriers. 

The  Ox-murder  was  obsolete  at  Athens,  but 


92  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  spirit  of  the  rite  is  alive  to-day  among 
the  Ainos  in  the  remote  island  of  Saghalien. 
Among  the  Ainos  the  Bear  is  what  psycholo- 
gists rather  oddly  call  the  main  “food  focus,” 
the  chief  “value  centre.”  And  well  he  may 
be.  Bear’s  flesh  is  the  Ainos’  staple  food; 
they  eat  it  both  fresh  and  salted;  bearskins 
are  their  principal  clothing;  part  of  their 
taxes  are  paid  in  bear’s  fat.  The  Aino  men 
spend  the  autumn,  winter,  and  spring  in  hunt- 
ing the  Bear.  Yet  we  are  told  the  Ainos 
“worship  the  Bear”;  they  apply  to  it  the 
name  Kamui,  which  has  been  translated  god; 
but  it  is  a word  applied  to  all  strangers,  and 
so  only  means  what  catches  attention,  and 
hence  is  formidable.  In  the  religion  of  the 
Ainos  “the  Bear  plays  a chief  part,”  says 
one  writer.  The  Bear  “receives  idolatrous 
veneration,”  says  another.  They  “worship 
it  after  their  fashion,”  says  a third.  Have  we 
another  case  of  “the  heathen  in  his  blind- 
ness”? Only  here  he  “bows  down”  not  to 
“gods  of  wood  and  stone,”  but  to  a live  thing, 
uncouth,  shambling  but  gracious — a Bear. 

Instead  of  theorizing  as  to  what  the  Aino 
thinks  and  imagines,  let  us  observe  his  doings, 
his  dromena,  his  rites;  and  most  of  all  his 


SPRmG  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  93 


great  spring  and  autumn  rite,  the  dromenon 
of  the  Bear.  We  shall  find  that,  detail  for 
detail,  it  strangely  resembles  the  Greek  dro- 
menon of  the  Bull. 

As  winter  draws  to  a close  among  the 
Ainos,  a young  bear  is  trapped  and  brought 
into  the  village.  At  first  an  Aino  woman 
suckles  him  at  her  breast,  then  later  he  is 
fed  on  his  favourite  food,  fish — ^his  tastes  are 
semi-polar.  When  he  is  at  his  full  strength, 
that  is,  when  he  threatens  to  break  the  cage 
in  which  he  lives,  the  feast  is  held.  This  is 
usually  in  September,  or  October,  that  is 
when  the  season  of  bear-hunting  begins. 

Before  the  feast  begins  the  Ainos  apologize 
profusely,  saying  that  they  have  been  good 
to  the  Bear,  they  can  feed  him  no  longer,  they 
must  kill  him.  Then  the  man  who  gives  the 
Bear-feast  invites  his  relations  and  friends, 
and  if  the  community  be  small  nearly  the 
whole  vfilage  attends.  On  the  occasion 
described  by  Dr.  Scheube  about  thirty  Ainos 
were  present,  men,  women,  and  children,  all 
dressed  in  their  best  clothes.  The  woman  of 
the  house  who  had  suckled  the  Bear  sat  by 
herself,  sad  and  silent,  only  now  and  then  she 
burst  into  helpless  tears.  The  ceremony 


94  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


began  with  libations  made  to  the  fire-god  and 
to  the  house-god  set  up  in  a corner  of  the 
house.  Next  the  master  and  some  of  the 
guests  left  the  hut  and  offered  libations  in 
front  of  the  Bear’s  cage.  A few  drops  were 
presented  to  him  in  a saucer,  which  he 
promptly  upset.  Then  the  women  and  girls 
danced  round  the  cage,  rising  and  hopping 
on  their  toes,  and  as  they  danced  they  clapped 
their  hands  and  chanted  a monotonous  chant. 
The  mother  and  some  of  the  old  women  cried 
as  they  danced  and  stretched  out  their  arms 
to  the  Bear,  calling  him  loving  names.  The 
young  women  who  had  nursed  no  Bears 
laughed,  after  the  manner  of  the  young.  The 
Bear  began  to  get  upset,  and  rushed  round 
his  cage,  howling  lamentably. 

Next  came  a ceremony  of  special  signifi- 
cance which  is  never  omitted  at  the  sacrifice  of 
a Bear.  Libations  were  offered  to  the  inabos, 
sacred  wands  which  stand  outside  the  Aino 
hut.  These  wands  are  about  two  feet  high 
and  are  whittled  at  the  top  into  spiral  shav- 
ings. Five  new  wands  with  bamboo  leaves  at- 
tached to  them  are  set  up  for  the  festival;  the 
leaves  according  to  the  Ainos  mean  that  the 
Bear  may  come  to  life  again.  These  wands 


SPEING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  95 


are  specially  interesting.  The  chief  focus  of 
attention  is  of  course  the  Bear,  because  his 
flesh  is  for  the  Aino  his  staple  food.  But 
vegetation  is  not  quite  forgotten.  The  ani- 
mal life  of  the  Bear  and  the  vegetable  life  of 
the  bamboo-leaves  are  thought  of  together. 

Then  comes  the  actual  sacriflce.  The  Bear 
is  led  out  of  his  cage,  a rope  is  thrown  round 
his  neck,  and  he  is  perambulated  round  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  hut.  We  do  not  hear 
that  among  the  Ainos  he  goes  in  procession 
round  the  village,  but  among  the  Gilyaks,  not 
far  away  in  Eastern  Siberia,  the  Bear  is  led 
about  the  villages,  and  it  is  held  to  be  specially 
important  that  he  should  be  dragged  down 
to  the  river,  for  this  will  ensure  the  village  a 
plentiful  supply  of  flsh.  He  is  then,  among 
the  Gilyaks,  taken  to  each  hut  in  the  village, 
and  flsh,  brandy,  and  other  delicacies  are 
offered  to  him.  Some  of  the  people  prostrate 
themselves  in  front  of  him  and  his  coming  into 
a house  brings  a blessing,  and  if  he  snuffs 
at  the  food,  that  brings  a blessing  too. 

To  return  to  the  Aino  Bear.  While  he  is 
being  led  about  the  hut  the  men,  headed  by  a 
chief,  shoot  at  the  Bear  with  arrows  tipped 
with  buttons.  But  the  object  of  the  shooting 


96  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


is  not  to  kill,  only  apparently  to  irritate  him. 
He  is  killed  at  last  without  shedding  of  his 
sacred  blood,  and  we  hope  without  much  pain. 
He  is  taken  in  front  of  the  sacred  wands, 
a stick  placed  in  his  mouth,  and  nine  men 
press  his  neck  against  a beam;  he  dies  without 
a soimd.  Meantime  the  women  and  girls, 
who  stand  behind  the  men,  dance,  lament,  and 
beat  the  men  who  are  killing  their  Bear. 
The  body  of  the  dead  Bear  is  then  laid  on  a 
mat  before  the  sacred  wands.  A sword  and 
quiver,  taken  from  the  wands,  are  hung  about 
the  Bear.  If  it  is  a She-Bear  it  is  also  be- 
decked with  a necklace  and  rings.  Food  and 
drink,  millet  broth  and  millet  cakes,  are 
offered  to  it.  It  is  decked  as  an  Aino,  it  is 
fed  as  an  Aino.  It  is  clear  that  the  Bear  is 
in  some  sense  a human  Bear,  an  Aino.  The 
men  sit  down  on  mats  in  front  of  the  Bear 
and  offer  libations,  and  themselves  drink 
deep. 

Now  that  the  death  is  fairly  over  the 
mourning  ends,  and  all  is  feasting  and  merri- 
ment. Even  the  old  women  lament  no  more. 
Cakes  of  millet  are  scrambled  for.  The  bear 
is  skinned  and  disembowelled,  the  trunk  is 
severed  from  the  head,  to  which  the  skin  is 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  97 


left  hanging.  The  blood,  which  might  not 
be  shed  before,  is  now  carefully  collected  in 
cups  and  eagerly  drunk  by  the  men,  for  the 
blood  is  the  life.  The  hver  is  cut  up  and 
eaten  raw.  The  flesh  and  the  rest  of  the 
vitals  are  kept  for  the  day  next  but  one,  when 
it  is  divided  among  all  persons  present  at  the 
feast.  It  is  what  the  Greeks  call  a dais,  a 
meal  divided  or  distributed.  While  the  Bear 
is  being  dismembered  the  girls  dance,  in 
front  of  the  sacred  wands,  and  the  old  women 
again  lament.  The  Bear’s  brain  is  extracted 
from  his  head  and  eaten,  and  the  skull,  sev- 
ered from  the  skin,  is  hung  on  a pole  near  the 
sacred  wands.  Thus  it  would  seem  the  life 
and  strength  of  the  bear  is  brought  near  to 
the  living  growth  of  the  leaves.  The  stick 
with  which  the  Bear  was  gagged  is  also  hung 
on  the  pole,  and  with  it  the  sword  and  quiver 
he  had  worn  after  his  death.  The  whole 
congregation,  men  and  women,  dance  about 
this  strange  maypole,  and  a great  drinking 
bout,  in  which  all  men  and  women  alike 
join,  ends  the  feast. 

The  rite  varies  as  to  detail  in  different 
places.  Among  the  Gilyaks  the  Bear  is 
dressed  after  death  in  full  Gilyak  costume 


98  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


and  seated  on  a bench  of  honour.  In  one  part 
the  bones  and  skull  are  carried  out  by  the 
oldest  people  to  a place  in  the  forest  not  far 
from  the  village.  There  all  the  bones  except 
the  skull  are  buried.  After  that  a young  tree 
is  felled  a few  inches  above  the  ground,  its 
stump  is  cleft,  and  the  skull  wedged  into  the 
cleft.  When  the  grass  grows  over  the  spot 
the  skull  disappears  and  there  is  an  end  of  the 
Bear,  Sometimes  the  Bear’s  flesh  is  eaten 
in  special  vessels  prepared  for  this  festival 
and  only  used  at  it.  These  vessels,  which  in- 
clude bowls,  platters,  spoons,  are  elaborately 
carved  with  figures  of  bears  and  other 
devices. 

Through  all  varieties  in  detail  the  main 
intent  is  the  same,  and  it  is  identical  with  that 
of  the  rite  of  the  holy  Bull  in  Greece  and  the 
maypole  of  our  forefathers.  Great  is  the 
sanctity  of  the  Bear  or  the  Bull  or  the  Tree; 
the  Bear  for  a hunting  people;  the  Bull  for 
nomads,  later  for  agriculturists;  the  Tree  for 
a forest  folk.  On  the  Bear  and  the  Bull  and 
the  Tree  are  focussed  the  desire  of  the  whole 
people.  Bear  and  Bull  and  Tree  are  sacred, 
that  is,  set  apart,  because  full  of  a special  life 
and  strength  intensely  desired.  They  are  led 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  99 


and  carried  about  from  house  to  house  that 
their  sanctity  may  touch  all,  and  avail  for  aU; 
the  animal  dies  that  he  may  be  eaten;  the 
Tree  is  torn  to  pieces  that  all  may  have  a 
fragment;  and,  above  all.  Bear  and  Bull  and 
Tree  die  only  that  they  may  hve  again. 

We  have  seen  (p.  71)  that,  out  of  the  puppet 
or  the  May  Queen,  actually  perceived  year 
after  year  there  arose  a remembrance,  a men- 
tal image,  an  imagined  Tree  Spirit,  or  “Sum- 
mer,” or  Death,  a thing  never  actually  seen 
but  conceived.  Just  so  with  the  Bull.  Year 
by  year  in  the  various  villages  of  Greece  was 
seen  an  actual  holy  BuU,  and  bit  by  bit  from 
the  remembrance  of  these  various  holy  BuUs, 
who  only  died  to  hve  again  each  year,  there 
arose  the  image  of  a Bull-Spirit,  or  BuU- 
Daimon,  and  finally,  if  we  like  to  call  him  so, 
a Bull-God.  The  growth  of  this  idea,  this 
conception,  must  have  been  much  helped  by 
the  fact  that  in  some  places  the  dancers 
attendant  on  the  holy  Bull  dressed  up  as 
bulls  and  cows.  The  women  worshippers  of 
Dionysos,  we  are  told,  wore  bulls’  horns  in 
imitation  of  the  god,  for  they  represented  him 
in  pictures  as  having  a bull’s  head.  We 


100  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


know  that  a man  does  not  turn  into  a bull, 
or  a bull  into  a man,  the  line  of  demarcation 
is  clearly  drawn;  but  the  rustic  has  no  such 
conviction  even  to-day.  That  crone,  his  aged 
aimt,  may  any  day  come  in  at  the  window 
in  the  shape  of  a black  cat;  why  should  she 
not.?  It  is  not,  then,  that  a god  ‘takes  upon 
him  the  form  of  a bull,’  or  is  ‘incarnate  in  a 
bull,’  but  that  the  real  Bull  and  the  worship- 
per dressed  as  a bull  are  seen  and  remembered 
and  give  rise  to  an  imagmed  Bull-God;  but, 
it  should  be  observed,  only  among  gifted, 
imaginative,  that  is,  image-making,  peoples. 
The  Ainos  have  their  actual  holy  Bear,  as  the 
Greeks  had  their  holy  Bull;  but  with  them 
out  of  the  succession  of  holy  Bears  there 
arises,  alas!  no  Bear-God. 

We  have  dwelt  long  on  the  Bull-driving 
Dithyramb,  because  it  was  not  obvious  on 
the  face  of  it  how  driving  a bull  could  help 
the  coming  of  spring.  We  understand  now 
why,  on  the  day  before  the  tragedies  were  per- 
formed at  Athens,  the  young  men  (ephehoi) 
brought  in  not  only  the  human  figure  of  the 
god,  but  also  a Bull  “worthy”  of  the  God. 
We  understand,  too,  why  in  addition  to  the 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  101 


tragedies  performed  at  the  great  festival. 
Dithyrambs  were  also  sung — “Bull-driving 
Dithyrambs.” 

We  come  next  to  a third  aspect  of  the 
Dithyramb,  and  one  perhaps  the  most  im- 
portant of  all  for  the  understanding  of  art, 
and  especially  the  drama.  The  Dithyramb 
was  the  Song  and  Dance  of  the  New  Birth. 

Plato  is  discussing  various  sorts  of  odes 
or  songs.  “Some,”  he  says,  “are  prayers 
to  the  gods — these  are  called  hymns;  others 
of  an  opposite  sort  might  best  be  called 
dirges;  another  sort  are  pecans,  and  another 
— the  birth  of  Dionysos,  I suppose — is  called 
Dithyramb.”  Plato  is  not  much  interested 
in  Dithyrambs.  To  him  they  are  just  a 
particular  kind  of  choral  song;  it  is  doubtful 
if  he  even  knew  that  they  were  Spring  Songs; 
but  this  he  did  know,  though  he  throws  out 
the  information  carelessly — the  Dithyramb 
had  for  its  proper  subject  the  birth  or  com- 
ing to  be,  the  genesis  of  Dionysos. 

The  common  usage  of  Greek  poetry  bears 
out  Plato’s  statement.  When  a poet  is  going 
to  describe  the  birth  of  Dionysos  he  calls 
the  god  by  the  title  Dithyrambos.  Thus 


102  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


an  inscribed  hymn  found  at  Delphi^  opens 
thus:  - 

“Come,  O Dithyrambos,  Bacchos,  come. 

Bromios,  come,  and  coming  with  thee  bring 
Holy  hours  of  thine  own  holy  spring. 


All  the  stars  danced  for  joy.  Mirth 
Of  mortals  hailed  thee,  Bacchos,  at  thy 
birth.” 

The  Dithyramb  is  the  song  of  the  birth,  and 
the  birth  of  Dionysos  is  in  the  spring,  the 
time  of  the  maypole,  the  time  of  the  holy 
Bull. 

And  now  we  come  to  a curious  thing.  We 
have  seen  how  a spirit,  a daemon,  and  perhaps 
ultimately  a god,  develops  out  of  an  actual 
rite.  Dionysos  the  Tree-God,  the  Spirit  of 
Vegetation,  is  but  a maypole  once  perceived, 
then  remembered  and  conceived.  Dionysos, 
the  Bull-God,  is  but  the  actual  holy  Bull 
himself,  or  rather  the  suceession  of  annual 
holy  Bulls  once  perceived,  then  remembered, 

* See  my  Prolegomena,  p.  439. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  103 


generalized,  conceived.  But  the  god  con- 
ceived will  surely  always  be  made  in  the 
image,  the  mental  image,  of  the  fact  perceived. 
If,  then,  we  have  a song  and  dance  of  the  birth 
of  Dionysos,  shall  we  not,  as  in  the  Christian 
religion,  have  a child-god,  a holy  babe,  a 
Saviour  in  the  manger;  at  first  in  original 
form  as  a calf,  then  as  a human  child.?  Now 
it  is  quite  true  that  in  Greek  religion  there  is  a 
babe  Dionysos  called  Liknites,  “Him  of  the 
Cradle.”  ^ The  rite  of  waking  up,  or  bringing 
to  fight,  the  child  Liknites  was  performed 
each  year  at  Delphi  by  the  holy  women. 

But  it  is  equally  clear  and  certain  that  the 
Dionysos  of  Greek  worship  and  of  the  drama 
was  not  a babe  in  the  cradle.  He  was  a 
goodly  youth  in  the  first  bloom  of  manhood, 
with  the  down  upon  his  cheek,  the  time  when, 
Homer  says,  “youth  is  most  gracious.”  This 
is  the  Dionysos  that  we  know  in  statuary, 
the  fair,  dreamy  youth  sunk  in  reverie;  this  is 
the  Dionysos  whom  Pentheus  despised  and 
insulted  because  of  his  young  beauty  like  a 
woman’s.  But  how  could  such  a Dionysos 
arise  out  of  a rite  of  birth.?  He  could  not,  and 
he  did  not.  The  Dithyramb  is  also  the  song 

1 Prolegomena,  p.  402= 


104  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


of  the  second  or  new  birth,  the  Dithyrambos 
is  the  twice-born. 

This  the  Greeks  themselves  knew.  By 
a false  etymology  they  explained  the  word 
Dithyrambos  as  meaning  “He  of  the  double 
door,”  their  word  thyra  being  the  same  as 
our  door.  They  were  quite  mistaken;  Dithy- 
rambos, modern  philology  tells  us,  is  the 
Divine  Leaper,  Dancer,  and  Lifegiver.  But 
their  false  etymology  is  important  to  us,  be- 
cause it  shows  that  they  believed  the  Dithy- 
rambos was  the  twice-born.  Dionysos  was 
born,  they  fabled,  once  of  his  mother,  like  all 
men,  once  of  his  father’s  thigh,  like  no  man. 

But  if  the  Dithyrambos,  the  young  Dio- 
nysos, like  the  Bull-God,  the  Tree-God, 
arises  from  a dromenon,  a rite,  what  is  the 
rite  of  second  birth  from  which  it  arises.? 

We  look  in  vain  among  our  village  customs. 
If  ever  rite  of  second  birth  existed,  it  is  dead 
and  buried.  We  turn  to  anthropology  for 
help,  and  find  this,  the  rite  of  the  second 
birth,  widespread,  universal,  over  half  the 
savage  world. 

With  the  savage,  to  be  twice  born  is  the 
rule,  not  the  exception.  By  his  first  birth  he 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  105 


comes  into  the  world,  by  his  second  he  is  born 
into  his  tribe.  At  his  first  birth  he  belongs 
to  his  mother  and  the  women-folk;  at  his 
second  he  becomes  a full-fiedged  man  and 
passes  into  the  society  of  the  warriors  of  his 
tribe.  This  second  birth  is  a little  diflScult 
for  us  to  realize.  A boy  with  us  passes  very 
gradually  from  childhood  to  manhood,  there 
is  no  definite  moment  when  he  suddenly 
emerges  as  a man.  Little  by  little  as  his 
education  advances  he  is  admitted  to  the 
social  privileges  of  the  circle  in  which  he  is 
bom.  He  goes  to  school,  enters  a workshop 
or  a university,  and  finally  adopts  a trade  or  a 
profession.  In  the  case  of  girls,  iu  whose  up- 
bringing primitive  savagery  is  apt  to  linger, 
there  is  still,  in  certain  social  strata,  a cere- 
mony known  as  Coming  Out.  A girl’s  dress  is 
suddenly  lengthened,  her  hair  is  put  up,  she 
is  allowed  to  wear  jewels,  she  kisses  her  sove- 
reign’s hand,  a dance  is  given  in  her  honour, 
abruptly,  from  her  seclusion  in  the  cocoon 
state  of  the  schoolroom,  she  emerges  full- 
blown into  society.  But  the  custom,  with  its 
half-realized  savagery,  is  already  dying,  and 
with  boys  it  does  not  obtain  at  all.  Both 
sexes  share,  of  course,  the  religious  rite  of 
Confirmation. 


106  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


To  avoid  harsh  distinctions,  to  bridge  over 
abrupt  transitions,  is  always  a mark  of 
advancing  civilization;  but  the  savage,  in 
his  ignorance  and  fear,  lamentably  over- 
stresses distinctions  and  transitions.  The 
long  process  of  education,  of  passing  from 
child  to  man,  is  with  him  condensed  into  a 
few  days,  weeks,  or  sometimes  months  of 
tremendous  educational  emphasis — of  what 
is  called  “initiation,”  “going  in,”  that  is, 
entering  the  tribe.  The  ceremonies  vary, 
but  the  gist  is  always  substantially  the  same. 
The  boy  is  to  put  away  childish  things,  and 
become  a grown  and  competent  tribesman. 
Above  all  he  is  to  cease  to  be  a woman-thing 
and  become  a man.  His  initiation  prepares 
him  for  his  two  chief  functions  as  a tribesman 
— to  be  a warrior,  to  be  a father.  That  to  the 
savage  is  the  main  if  not  the  whole  Duty  of 
Man. 

This  “initiation”  is  of  tremendous  impor- 
tance, and  we  should  expect,  what  in  fact 
we  find,  that  all  this  emotion  that  centres 
about  it  issues  in  dromena,  “rites  done.” 
These  rites  are  very  various,  but  they  all 
point  one  moral,  that  the  former  things  are 
passed  away  and  that  the  new-born  man  has 
entered  on  a new  life. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  107 


Simplest  perhaps  of  all,  and  most  instruc- 
tive, is  the  rite  practised  by  the  Kikuyu 
of  British  East  Africa,^  who  require  that 
every  boy,  just  before  circumcision,  must  be 
born  again.  “The  mother  stands  up  with 
the  boy  crouching  at  her  feet;  she  pretends 
to  go  through  all  the  labour  pains,  and  the 
boy  on  beipg  reborn  cries  like  a babe  and  is 
washed.” 

More  often  the  new  birth  is  simulated,  or 
imagined,  as  a death  and  a resurrection,  either 
of  the  boys  themselves  or  of  some  one  else  in 
their  presence.  Thus  at  initiation  among 
some  tribes  of  South-east  Australia,^  when 
the  boys  are  assembled  an  old  man  dressed 
in  stringy  bark  fibre  lies  down  in  a grave. 
He  is  covered  up  lightly  with  sticks  and 
earth,  and  the  grave  is  smoothed  over.  The 
buried  man  holds  in  his  hand  a small  bush 
which  seems  to  be  growing  from  the  ground, 
and  other  bushes  are  stuck  in  the  ground 
round  about.  The  novices  are  then  brought 
to  the  edge  of  the  grave  and  a song  is  sung. 
Gradually,  as  the  song  goes  on,  the  bush  held 
by  the  buried  man  begins  to  quiver.  It 

1 Frazer,  Tofemism  and  Exogamy,  Vol.  I,  p.  228. 

^ The  Golden  Bough, ^ III,  424. 


108  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


moves  more  and  more  and  bit  by  bit  the 
man  himself  starts  up  from  the  grave. 

The  Fijians  have  a drastic  and  repulsive 
way  of  simulating  death.  The  boys  are 
shown  a row  of  seemingly  dead  men,  their 
bodies  covered  with  blood  and  entrails,  which 
are  really  those  of  a dead  pig.  The  first 
gives  a sudden  yell.  Up  start  the  men,  and 
then  run  to  the  river  to  cleanse  themselves. 

Here  the  death  is  vicarious.  Another  goes 
through  the  simulated  death  that  the  initiated 
boy  may  have  new  life.  But  often  the 
mimicry  is  practised  on  the  boys  themselves. 
Thus  in  West  Ceram  ^ boys  at  puberty  are 
admitted  to  the  Kakian  association.  The 
boys  are  taken  blindfold,  followed  by  their 
relations,  to  an  oblong  wooden  shed  under  the 
darkest  trees  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
When  all  are  assembled  the  high  priest  calls 
aloud  on  the  devils,  and  immediately  a 
hideous  uproar  is  heard  from  the  shed.  It  is 
really  made  by  men  in  the  shed  with  bamboo 
trumpets,  but  the  women  and  children  think 
it  is  the  devils.  Then  the  priest  enters  the 
shed  with  the  boys,  one  at  a time.  A dull 
thud  of  chopping  is  heard,  a fearful  cry  rings 
^ The  Golden  Bough,^  III,  442. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  109 


out,  and  a sword  dripping  with  blood  is  thrust 
out  through  the  roof.  This  is  the  token  that 
the  boy’s  head  has  been  cut  off,  and  that 
the  devil  has  taken  him  away  to  the  other 
world,  whence  he  will  return  born  again. 
In  a day  or  two  the  men  who  act  as  sponsors 
to  the  boys  return  daubed  with  mud,  and  in 
a half-fainting  state  like  messengers  from 
another  world.  They  bring  the  good  news 
that  the  devil  has  restored  the  boys  to  life. 
The  boys  themselves  appear,  but  when  they 
return  they  totter  as  they  walk;  they  go  into 
the  house  backwards.  If  food  is  given  them 
they  upset  the  plate.  They  sit  dumb  and 
only  make  signs.  The  sponsors  have  to 
teach  them  the  simplest  daily  acts  as  though 
they  were  new-born  children.  At  the  end 
of  twenty  to  thirty  days,  during  which  their 
mothers  and  sisters  may  not  comb  their  hair, 
the  high  priest  takes  them  to  a lonely  place 
in  the  forest  and  cuts  off  a lock  of  hair  from 
the  crown  of  each  of  their  heads.  At  the 
close  of  these  rites  the  boys  are  men  and  may 
marry.- 

Sometimes  the  new  birth  is  not  simulated 
but  merely  suggested.  A new  name  is  given, 
a new  language  taught,  a new  dress  worn. 


110  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


new  dances  are  danced.  Almost  always  it 
is  accompanied  by  moral  teaching.  Thus 
in  the  Kakian  ceremony  already  described 
the  boys  have  to  sit  in  a row  cross-legged, 
without  moving  a muscle,  with  their  hands 
stretched  out.  The  chief  takes  a trumpet, 
and  placing  the  mouth  of  it  on  the  hand  of 
each  lad,  he  speaks  through  it  in  strange 
tones,  imitating  the  voice  of  spirits.  He 
warns  the  boys  on  pain  of  death  to  observe 
the  rules  of  the  society,  and  never  to  reveal 
what  they  have  seen  in  the  Kakian  house. 
The  priests  also  instruct  the  boys  on  their 
duty  to  their  blood  relations,  and  teach  them 
the  secrets  of  the  tribe. 

Sometimes  it  is  not  clear  whether  the  new 
birth  is  merely  suggested  or  represented  in 
pantomime.  Thus  among  the  Binbinga  of 
North  Australia  it  is  generally  believed  that 
at  initiation  a monstrous  being  called  Kata- 
jalina,  like  the  Kronos  of  the  Greeks,  swallows 
the  boys  and  brings  them  up  again  initiated; 
but  whether  there  is  or  is  not  a dromenon  or 
rite  of  swallowing  we  are  not  told. 

In  totemistic  societies,  and  in  the  animal 
secret  societies  that  seem  to  grow  out  of  them, 
the  novice  is  born  again  as  the  sacred  animal. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  111 


Thus  among  the  Carrier  Indians^  when  a 
man  wants  to  become  a Lulem,  or  Bear, 
however  cold  the  season,  he  tears  off  his 
clothes,  puts  on  a bearskin  and  dashes  into 
the  woods,  where  he  will  stay  for  three  or 
four  days.  Every  night  his  fellow-villagers 
will  go  out  in  search  parties  to  find  him. 
They  cry  out  Yi!  Kelulem  (“  Come  on.  Bear”) 
and  he  answers  with  angry  growls.  Usually 
they  fail  to  find  him,  but  he  comes  back  at 
last  himself.  He  is  met  and  conducted  to 
the  ceremonial  lodge,  and  there,  in  company 
with  the  rest  of  the  Bears,  dances  solemnly 
his  first  appearance.  Disappearance  and  re- 
appearance is  as  common  a rite  in  initiation 
as  simulated  killing  and  resurrection,  and  has 
the  same  object.  Both  are  rites  of  transition, 
of  passing  from  one  state  to  another.  It  has 
often  been  remarked,  by  students  of  ancient 
Greek  and  other  ceremonies,  that  the  rites 
of  birth,  marriage,  and  death,  which  seem  to 
us  so  different,  are  to  primitive  man  oddly 
similar.  This  is  explained  if  we  see  that  in 
intent  they  are  all  the  same,  all  a passing 
from  one  social  state  to  another.  There  are 
but  two  factors  in  every  rite,  the  putting  off 
1 The  Golden  Bough, ^ III,  p.  438. 


112  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


of  the  old,  the  putting  on  of  the  new;  you 
carry  out  Winter  or  Death,  you  bring  in 
Summer  or  Life.  Between  them  is  a mid- 
way state  when  you  are  neither  here  nor 
there,  you  are  secluded,  under  a taboo. 

To  the  Greeks  and  to  many  primitive  peo- 
ples the  rites  of  birth,  marriage,  and  death 
were  for  the  most  part  family  rites  needing 
little  or  no  social  emphasis.  But  the  rite 
which  concerned  the  whole  tribe,  the  essence 
of  which  was  entrance  into  the  tribe,  was  the 
rite  of  initiation  at  puberty.  This  all-im- 
portant fact  is  oddly  and  significantly  en- 
shrined in  the  Greek  language.  The  general 
Greek  word  for  rite  was  telete.  It  was  applied 
to  all  mysteries,  and  sometimes  to  marriages 
and  funerals.  But  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
death.  It  comes  from  a root  meaning  “to 
grow  up.”  The  word  telete  means  rite  of 
growing  up,  becoming  complete.  It  meant 
at  first  maturity,  then  rite  of  maturity,  then 
by  a natural  extension  any  rite  of  initiation 
that  was  mysterious.  The  rites  of  puberty 
were  in  their  essence  mysterious,  because 
they  consisted  in  initiation  into  the  sanctities 
of  the  tribe,  the  things  which  society  sane- 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  JLa 

tioned  and  protected,  excluding  the  uniniti- 
ated, whether  they  were  young  boys,  women, 
or  members  of  other  tribes.  Then,  by  con- 
tagion, the  mystery  notion  spread  to  other 
rites. 

We  understand  now  who  and  what  was 
the  god  who  arose  out  of  the  rite,  the  dromenon 
of  tribal  initiation,  the  rite  of  the  new,  the 
second  birth.  He  was  Dionysos.  His  name, 
according  to  recent  philology,  tells  us — ^Dio- 
nysos,  “Divine  Young  Man.” 

When  once  we  see  that  out  of  the  emotion 
of  the  rite  and  the  facts  of  the  rite  arises  that 
remembrance  and  shadow  of  the  rite,  that 
image  which  is  the  god,  we  realize  instantly 
that  the  god  of  the  spring  rite  must  be  a 
young  god,  and  in  primitive  societies,  where 
young  women  are  but  of  secondary  account, 
he  will  necessarily  be  a yoimg  man.  Where 
emotion  centres  round  tribal  initiation  he 
will  be  a young  man  just  initiated,  what  tne 
Greeks  called  a Tcouros,  or  ephebos,  a youth 
of  quite  different  social  status  from  a mere 
pais  or  boy.  Such  a youth  survives  in  our 
King  of  the  May  and  Jack-in-the-Green. 
Old  men  and  women  are  for  death  and  winter. 


114  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  young  for  life  and  spring,  and  most  of 
all  the  young  man  or  bear  or  bull  or  tree 
just  come  to  maturity. 

And  because  life  is  one  at  the  Spring  Fes- 
tival, the  young  man  carries  a blossoming 
branch  bound  with  wool  of  the  young  sheep. 
At  Athens  in  spring  and  autumn  alike  “they 
carry  out  the  Eiresione,  a branch  of  olive 
wound  about  with  wool  . . . and  laden  with 
all  sorts  of  first  fruits,  that  scarcity  may  ceases 
and  they  sing  over  it: 

“Eiresione  brings 
Figs  and  fat  cakes. 

And  a pot  of  honey  and  oil  to  mix. 
And  a wine-cup  strong  and  deep. 
That  she  may  drink  and  sleep.” 

The  Eiresione  had  another  name  that  told 
its  own  tale.  It  was  called  Korythalia,^ 
“Branch  of  blooming  youth.”  The  young 
men,  says  a Greek  orator,  are  “the  Spring  of 
the  people.” 

The  excavations  of  Crete  have  given  to  us 
an  ancient  inscribed  hymn,  a Dithyramb,  we 
may  safely  call  it,  that  is  at  once  a spring- 
* See  my  Themis,  p.  503. 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  115 


song  and  a young  man-song.  The  god  here 
invoked  is  what  the  Greeks  call  a kouros,  a 
young  man.  It  is  sung  and  danced  by  young 
warriors : 

“Ho!  Kouros,  most  Great,  I give  thee  hail. 
Lord  of  all  that  is  wet  and  gleaming;  thou 
art  come  at  the  head  of  thy  Daimones.  To 
Dikte  for  the  Year,  Oh,  march  and  rejoice 
in  the  dance  and  song.” 

The  leader  of  the  band  of  kouroi,  of  young 
men,  the  real  actual  leader,  has  become  by 
remembrance  and  abstraction,  as  we  noted, 
a daimon,  or  spirit,  at  the  head  of  a band  of 
spirits,  and  he  brings  in  the  new  year  at 
spring.  The  real  leader,  the  “first  kouros” 
as  the  Greeks  called  him,  is  there  in  the  body, 
but  from  the  succession  of  leaders  year  by 
year  they  have  imaged  a spirit  leader  greatest 
of  all.  He  is  “lord  of  all  that  is  wet  and 
gleaming,”  for  the  May  bough,  we  remem- 
ber, is  drenched  with  dew  and  water  that  it 
may  burgeon  and  blossom.  Then  they  chant 
the  tale  of  how  of  old  a child  was  taken  away 
from  its  mother,  taken  by  armed  men  to  be 
initiated,  armed  men  dancing  their  tribal 
dance.  The  stone  is  unhappily  broken  here, 


116  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


but  enough  remains  to  make  the  meaning 
clear. 

And  because  this  boy  grew  up  and  was 
initiated  into  manhood: 

“The  Horse  (Seasons)  began  to  be  fruitful 
year  by  year  and  Dike  to  possess  mankind, 
and  all  wild  living  things  were  held  about  by 
wealth-loving  Peace.” 

We  know  the  Seasons,  the  fruit  and  food 
bringers,  but  Dike  is  strange.  We  translate 
the  word  “Justice,”  but  Dike  means,  not 
Justice  as  between  man  and  man,  but  the 
order  of  the  world,  the  way  of  life.  It  is 
through  this  way,  this  order,  that  the  seasons 
go  round.  As  long  as  the  seasons  observe  this 
order  there  is  fruitfulness  and  peace.  If 
once  that  order  were  overstepped  then  would 
be  disorder,  strife,  confusion,  barrenness.  And 
next  comes  a mandate,  strange  to  our  mod- 
ern ears: 

“To  us  also  leap  for  full  jars,  and  leap  for 
fleecy  flocks,  and  leap  for  fields  of  fruit  and 
for  hives  to  bring  increase.” 

And  yet  not  strange  if  we  remember  the 
Macedonian  farmer  (p.  32),  who  throws  his 


SPRING  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE  117 


spade  into  the  air  that  the  wheat  may  be  tall, 
or  the  Russian  peasant  girls  who  leap  high 
in  the  air  crying,  “Flax,  grow.”  The  leaping 
of  the  youths  of  the  Cretan  hymn  is  just  the 
utterance  of  their  tense  desire.  They  have 
grown  up,  and  with  them  all  live  things  must 
grow.  By  their  magic  year  by  year  the  fruits 
of  the  earth  come  to  their  annual  new  birth. 
And  that  there  be  no  mistake  they  end: 

“Leap  for  our  cities,  and  leap  for  our  sea- 
borne ships,  and  for  our  young  citizens,  and 
for  goodly  Themis.” 

They  are  now  young  citizens  of  a fenced 
city  instead  of  young  tribesmen  of  the  bush, 
but  their  magic  is  the  same,  and  the  strength 
that  holds  them  together  is  the  bond  of  social 
custom,  social  structure,  “goodly  Themis.” 
No  man  liveth  to  himself. 

Crete  is  not  Athens,  but  at  Athens  in  the 
theatre  of  Dionysos,  if  the  priest  of  Dionysos, 
seated  at  the  great  Spring  Festival  in  his 
beautiful  carved  central  seat,  looked  across 
the  orchestra,  he  would  see  facing  him  a stone 
frieze  on  which  was  sculptured  the  Cretan 


118  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


ritual,  the  armed  dancing  youths  and  the 
child  to  be  year  by  year  reborn. 


We  have  seen  what  the  Dithyramb,  from 
which  sprang  the  Drama,  was.  A Spring 
song,  a song  of  Bull-driving,  a song  and  dance 
of  Second  Birth;  but  all  this  seems,  perhaps, 
not  to  bring  us  nearer  to  Greek  drama,  rather 
to  put  us  farther  away.  What  have  the 
Spring  and  the  Bull  and  the  Birth  Rite  to  do 
with  the  stately  tragedies  we  know — with  Aga- 
memnon and  Iphigenia  and  Orestes  and 
Hippolytos?  That  is  the  question  before 
us,  and  the  answer  will  lead  us  to  the  very 
heart  of  our  subject.  So  far  we  have  seen 
that  ritual  arose  from  the  presentation  and 
emphasis  of  emotion — emotion  felt  mainly 
about  food.  We  have  further  seen  that  ritual 
develops  out  of  and  by  means  of  periodic 
festivals.  One  of  the  chief  periodic  festivals 
at  Athens  was  the  Spring  Festival  of  the 
Dithyramb.  Out  of  this  Dithyramb  arose, 
Aristotle  says,  tragedy — that  is,  out  of  Ritual 
arose  Art.  How  and  Why.'*  That  is  the 
question  before  us. 


CHAPTER  V 


TRANSITION  FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART  : THE 

DROMENON  (“THING  DONE”)  AND  THE 
DRAMA 

Probably  most  people  when  they  go  to  a 
Greek  play  for  the  first  time  think  it  a strange 
performance.  According,  perhaps,  more  to 
their  temperament  than  to  their  training, 
they  are  either  very  much  excited  or  very 
much  bored.  In  many  minds  there  will  be 
left  a feeling  that,  whether  they  have  enjoyed 
the  play  or  not,  they  are  puzzled:  there  are 
odd  effects,  conventions,  suggestions. 

For  example,  the  main  deed  of  the  Tragedy, 
the  slaying  of  hero  or  heroine,  is  not  done 
on  the  stage.  That  disappoints  some  modern 
minds  unconsciously  avid  of  realism  to  the 
point  of  horror.  Instead  of  a fine  thrilling 
murder  or  suicide  before  his  very  eyes,  the 
spectator  is  put  off  with  an  accoimt  of  the 
murder  done  off  the  stage.  This  account  is 
regularly  given,  and  usually  at  considerable 
length,  in  a “messenger’s  speech.”  The  mes- 
119 


120  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


senger’s  speech  is  a regular  item  in  a Greek 
play,  and  though  actually  it  gives  scope  not 
only  for  fine  elocution,  but  for  real  dramatic 
effect,  in  theory  we  feel  it  undramatic,  and 
a modem  actor  has  sometimes  much  ado  to 
make  it  acceptable.  The  spectator  is  told 
that  all  these,  to  him,  odd  conventions  are 
due  to  Greek  restraint,  moderation,  good 
taste,  and  yet  for  all  their  supposed  restraint 
and  reserve,  he  finds  when  he  reads  his  Homer 
that  Greek  heroes  frequently  burst  into 
floods  of  tears  when  a self-respecting  Eng- 
Hshman  would  have  suffered  in  silence. 

Then  again,  specially  if  the  play  be  by 
Euripides,  it  ends  not  with  a “curtain,” 
not  with  a great  decisive  moment,  but  with 
the  appearance  of  a god  who  says  a few  lines 
of  either  exhortation  or  consolation  or  recon- 
cihation,  which,  after  the  strain  and  stress 
of  the  action  itself,  strikes  some  people  as 
rather  stilted  and  formal,  or  as  rather  flat 
and  somehow  unsatisfying.  Worse  still,  there 
are  in  many  of  the  scenes  long  dialogues,  in 
which  the  actors  wrangle  with  each  other, 
and  in  which  the  action  does  not  advance 
as  quickly  as  we  wish.  Or  again,  instead  of 
beginning  with  the  action,  and  having  our 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


121 


curiosity  excited  bit  by  bit  about  the  plot, 
at  the  outset  some  one  comes  in  and  tells  us 
the  whole  thing  in  the  prologue.  Prologues 
we  feel,  are  out  of  date,  and  the  Greeks  ought 
to  have  known  better.  Or  again,  of  course  we 
admit  that  tragedy  must  be  tragic,  and  we  are 
prepared  for  a decent  amount  of  lamenta- 
tion, but  when  an  antiphonal  lament  goes  on 
for  pages,  we  weary  and  wish  that  the  chorus 
would  stop  lamenting  and  do  something. 

At  the  back  of  our  modern  discontent 
there  is  lurking  always  this  queer  anomaly  of 
the  chorus.  We  have  in  our  modern  theatre 
no  chorus,  and  when,  in  the  opera,  something 
of  the  nature  of  a chorus  appears  in  the  ballet, 
it  is  a chorus  that  really  dances  to  amuse 
and  excite  us  in  the  intervals  of  operatic 
action;  it  is  not  a chorus  of  doddering  and 
pottering  old  men,  moralizing  on  an  action 
in  which  they  are  too  feeble  to  join.  Of 
course  if  we  are  classical  scholars  we  do  not 
cavil  at  the  choral  songs;  the  extreme  diffi- 
culty of  scanning  and  construing  them  alone 
commands  a traditional  respect;  but  if  we  are 
merely  modem  spectators,  we  may  be  re- 
spectful, we  may  even  feel  strangely  excited. 


122  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


but  we  are  certainly  puzzled.  The  reason  of 
our  bewilderment  is  simple  enough.  These 
\ prologues  and  messengers’  speeches  and  ever- 
I present  choruses  that  trouble  us  are  ritual 
I forms  still  surviving  at  a time  when  the  drama 
j has  fully  developed  out  of  the  dromenon.  We 
cannot  here  examine  all  these  ritual  forms  in 
detail;^  one,  however,  the  chorus,  strangest 
and  most  beautiful  of  all,  it  is  essential  we 
should  understand. 

Suppose  that  these  choral  songs  have  been 
put  into  Enghsh  that  in  any  way  represents 
the  beauty  of  the  Greek;  then  certainly 
there  will  be  some  among  the  spectators  who 
get  a thrill  from  the  chorus  quite  unknown 
to  any  modern  stage  effect,  a feeling  of  emo- 
tion heightened  yet  restrained,  a sense  of 
entering  into  higher  places,  filled  with  a larger 
and  a purer  air — a sense  of  beauty  bom  clean 
out  of  conflict  and  disaster. 

A suspicion  dawns  upon  the  spectator  that, 
great  though  the  tragedies  in  themselves  are, 
they  owe  their  peculiar,  their  incommunicable 
beauty  largely  to  this  element  of  the  choms 
which  seemed  at  first  so  strange. 

1 See  Bibliography  at  end  for  Professor  Murray’s 
examination. 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


123 


Now  by  examining  this  chorus  and  under- 
standing its  function — nay,  more,  by  consider- 
ing the  actual  orchestra,  the  space  on  which 
the  chorus  danced,  and  the  relation  of  that 
space  to  the  rest  of  the  theatre,  to  the  stage 
and  the  place  where  the  spectators  sat — we 
shall  get  light  at  last  on  our  main  central 
problem:  How  did  art  arise  out  of  ritual,  and 
what  is  the  relation  of  both  to  that  actual 
life  from  which  both  art  and  ritual  sprang? 

The  dramas  of  dEschylus  certainly,  and 
perhaps  also  those  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides 
were  played  not  upon  the  stage,  and  not  in 
the  theatre,  but,  strange  though  it  sounds  to 
us,  in  \hsjirchestj‘a.  The  theatre  to  the  Greeks 
was  simply  “the  place  of  seeing,  the  place 
where  the  spectators  sat;  what  they  called 
the  skene  or  scene,  was  the  tent  or  hut  in 
which  the  actors  dressed.  But  the  kernel  and 
centre  of  the  whole  was  the  orchestra,  the  cir- 
cular dancing-place  of  the  chorus;  and,  as 
the  orchestra  was  the  kernel  and  centre  of  the 
theatre,  so  the  chorus,  the  band  of  dancing 
and  singing  men — this  chorus  that  seems  to  us 
so  odd  and  even  superfluous — was  the  centre 
and  kernel  and  starting-point  of  the  drama. 


124 


ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


The  chorus  danced  and  sang  that  Dithyramb 
we  know  so  well,  and  from  the  leaders  of  that 
Dithyramb  we  remember  tragedy  arose,  and 
the  chorus  were  at  first,  as  an  ancient  writer 
tells  us,  just  men  and  boys,  tillers  of  the  earth, 
who  danced  when  they  rested  from  sowing 
and  ploughing. 

Now  it  is  in  the  relation  between  the 
orchestra  or  dancing-place  of  the  chorus, 
and  the  theatre  or  place  of  the  spectators,  a 
relation  that  shifted  as  time  went  on,  that 
we  see  mirrored  the  whole  development  from 
ritual  to  art — from  dromenon  to  drama. 

The  orchestra  on  which  the  Dithyramb  was 
danced  was  just  a circular  dancing-place 
beaten  flat  for  the  convenience  of  the  dancers, 
and  sometimes  edged  by  a stone  basement  to 
mark  the  circle.  This  circular  orchestra  is 
very  well  seen  in  the  theatre  of  Epidaurus, 
of  which  a sketch  is  given  in  Fig.  1.  The 
orchestra  here  is  surrounded  by  a splendid 
theatron,  or  spectator  place,  with  seats  rising 
tier  above  tier.  If  we  want  to  realize  the 
primitive  Greek  orchestra  or  dancing-place, 
we  must  think  these  stone  seats  away. 
Threshing-floors  are  used  in  Greece  to-day  as 


125 


nq-l.  UlCatrC  of  Ej^id^ras  • SKowing-CrcwIa-rOrcKc^a 


126  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


convenient  dancing-places.  The  dance  tends 
to  be  circular  because  it  is  round  some  sacred 
thing,  at  first  a maypole,  or  the  reaped  corn, 
later  the  figure  of  a god  or  his  altar.  On  this 
dancing-place  the  whole  body  of  worshippers 
would  gather,  just  as  now-a-days  the  whole 
community  will  assemble  on  a village  green. 
There  is  no  division  at  first  between  actors 
and  spectators;  all  are  actors,  all  are  doing 
the  thing  done,  dancing  the  dance  danced. 
Thus  at  initiation  ceremonies  the  whole  tribe 
assembles,  the  only  spectators  are  the  un- 
initiated, the  women  and  children.  No  one 
at  this  early  stage  thinks  of  building  a theatre, 
, a spectator  place.  Jt  is  in  the  common  apt, 
the  common  or  collective  emotion,  mat  rituaf 
starts^  This  must  never  be  forgotten. 

The  most  convenient  spot  for  a mere 
dancing-place  is  some  flat  place.  But  any 
one  who  travels  through  Greece  will  notice 
instantly  that  all  the  Greek  theatres  that 
remain  at  Athens,  at  Epidaurus,  at  Delos, 
Syracuse,  and  elsewhere,  are  built  against  the 
side  of  hills.  None  of  these  are  very  early; 
the  earhest  ancient  orchestra  we  have  is  at 
Athens.  It  is  a simple  stone  ring,  but  it  is 
built  against  the  steep  south  side  of  the 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


13^7 


Acropolis.  The  oldest  festival  of  Dionysos 
was,  as  will  presently  be  seen,  held  in  quite 
another  spot,  in  the  agora,  or  market-place. 

The  reason  for  moving  the  dance  was  that  the 
wooden  seats  that  used  to  be  set  up  on  a sort 
of  “grand  stand”  in  the  market-place  fell 
down,  and  it  was  seen  how  safely  and  com- 
fortably the  spectators  could  be  seated  on  the 
side  of  a steep  hill. 

The  spectators  are  a new  and  different  ele- 
ment, the  dance  is  not  only  danced,  but  it 
is  watched  from  a distance,  it  is  a spectacle; 
whereas  in  old  days  all  or  nearly  all  were 
worshippers  acting,  now  many,  indeed  most, 
are  spectators,  watching,  feeling,  thinking, 
not  doing.  It  is  in  this  new  attitude  of  the  \ 
spectator  that  we  touch  on  the  difference 
between  ritual  and  art;  the  dromenon,  the 
thing  actually  done  by  yourself  has  become  a ^ 
drama,  a thiag  also  done,  but  abstracted  from 
your  doing.  Let  us  look  for  a moment  at  the 
psychology  of  the  spectator,  at  his  behaviour. 

Artists,  it  is  often  said,  and  usually  felt, 
are  so  unpractical.  They  are  always  late  for 
dinner,  they  forget  to  post  their  letters  and  to 
return  the  books  or  even  money  that  is  lent 


128  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


them.  Art  is  to  most  people’s  minds  a sort 
of  luxury,  not  a necessity.  In  but  recently 
bygone  days  music,  drawing,  and  dancing 
were  no  part  of  a training  for  ordinary  life, 
they  were  taught  at  school  as  “accomplish- 
ments,” paid  for  as  “extras.”  Poets  on  their 
side  equally  used  to  contrast  art  and  life,  as 
though  they  were  things  essentially  distinct. 


“Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting.” 


Now  commonplaces  such  as  these,  being 
unconscious  utterances  of  the  collective  mind, 
usually  contain  much  truth,  and  are  well 
worth  weighing.  Art,  we  shall  show  later, 
is  profoundly  connected  with  life;  it  is  nowise 
superfluous.  But,  for  all  that,  art,  both  its 
creation  and  its  enjoyment,  is  unpractical. 
Thanks  be  to  God,  life  is  not  limited  to  the 
practical. 

When  we  say  art  is  unpractical,  we  mean 
that  art  is  cut  loose  from  immediate  action. 
Take  a simple  instance.  A man — or  perhaps 
still  better  a child — sees  a plate  of  cherries. 
Through  his  senses  comes  the  stimulus  of  the 
smell  of  the  cherries,  and  their  bright  colour 
urging  him,  luring  him  to  eat.  He  eats  and 
is  satisfied;  the  cycle  of  normal  behaviour  is 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


129 


complete;  he  is  a man  or  a child  of  action,  but 
he  is  no  artist,  and  no  art-lover.  Another 
man  looks  at  the  same  plate  of  cherries.  His 
sight  and  his  smell  lure  him  and  urge  him  to 
eat.  He  does  not  eat;  the  cycle  is  not  com- 
pleted, and,  because  he  does  not  eat,  the 
sight  of  those  cherries,  though  perhaps  not  the 
smell,  is  altered,  purified  from  desire,  and  in 
some  way  intensified,  enlarged.  If  he  is  just 
a man  of  taste,  he  will  take  what  we  call  an 
“aesthetic”  pleasure  in  those  cherries.  If  he 
is  an  actual  artist,  he  will  paint  not  the  cher- 
ries, but  his  vision  of  them,  his  purified  emo- 
tion towards  them.  He  has,  so  to  speak,  come 
out  from  the  chorus  of  actors,  of  cherry-eaters, 
and  become  a spectator. 

I borrow,  by  his  kind  permission,  a beauti- 
ful instance  of  what  he  well  calls  “Psychical 
Distance”  from  the  writings  of  a psycholo- 
gist.^ 

“Imagine  a fog  at  sea:  for  most  people 
it  is  an  experience  of  acute  unpleasantness. 
Apart  from  the  physical  annoyance  and 
remoter  forms  of  discomfort,  such  as  delays, 
it  is  apt  to  produce  feelings  of  peculiar  anxi- 
ety, fears  of  invisible  dangers,  strains  of 

* Mr.  Edward  Bullough,  The  British  Journal  of  Psychol- 
ogy (1912),  p.  88. 


130  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


watching  and  listening  for  distant  and  un- 
localized signals.  The  listless  movements 
of  the  ship  and  her  warning  calls  soon  tell 
upon  the  nerves  of  the  passengers;  and  that 
special,  expectant  tacit  anxiety  and  ner- 
vousness, always  associated  with  this  ex- 
perience, make  a fog  the  dreaded  terror  of 
the  sea  (all  the  more  terrifying  because  of  its 
very  silence  and  gentleness)  for  the  expert 
seafarer  no  less  than  the  ignorant  landsman. 

“Nevertheless,  a fog  at  sea  can  be  a source 
of  intense  relish  and  enjoyment.  Abstract 
from  the  experience  of  the  sea-fog,  for  the 
moment,  its  danger  and  practical  unpleasant- 
ness; . . . direct  the  attention  to  the  features 
‘objectively’  constituting  the  phenomena — 
the  veil  surrounding  you  with  an  opaqueness 
as  of  transparent  milk,  blurring  the  outlines 
of  things  and  distorting  their  shapes  into 
weird  grotesqueness;  observe  the  carrying 
power  of  the  air,  producing  the  impression 
as  if  you  could  touch  some  far-off  siren  by 
merely  putting  out  your  hand  and  letting  it 
lose  itself  behind  that  white  wall;  note  the 
curious  creamy  smoothness  of  the  water, 
hypercritically  denying  as  it  were,  any  sug- 
gestion of  danger;  and,  above  all,  the  strange 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


131 


solitude  and  remoteness  from  the  world,  as 
it  can  be  found  only  on  the  highest  mountain 
tops;  and  the  experience  may  acquire,  in 
its  uncanny  mingling  of  repose  and  terror, 
a flavour  of  such  concentrated  poignancy  and 
delight  as  to  contrast  sharply  with  the  blind 
and  distempered  anxiety  of  its  other  aspects. 
This  contrast,  often  emerging  with  startling 
suddenness,  is  like  the  momentary  switching 
on  of  some  new  current,  or  the  passing  ray 
of  a brighter  light,  illuminating  the  outlook 
upon  perhaps  the  most  ordinary  and  familiar 
objects — an  impression  which  we  experience 
sometimes  in  instants  of  direst  extremity, 
when  our  practical  interest  snaps  like  a wire 
from  sheer  over-tension,  and  we  watch  the 
consummation  of  some  impending  catastrophe 
with  the  marvelling  unconcern  of  a mere 
spectator.” 

It  has  often  been  noted  that  two,  and  two 
only,  of  our  senses  are  the  channels  of  art 
and  give  us  artistic  material.  These  two 
senses  are  sight  and  hearing.  Touch  and  its 
special  modifications,  taste  and  smell,  do  not 
go  to  the  making  of  art.  Decadent  French 
novelists,  such  as  Huysmann,  make  their 


132  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


heroes  revel  in  perfume-symphonies,  but  we 
feel  that  the  sentiment  described  is  morbid 
and  unreal,  and  we  feel  rightly.  Some  people 
speak  of  a cook  as  an  “artist,”  and  a pudding 
as  a “perfect  poem,”  but  a healthy  instinct 
rebels.  Art,  whether  sculpture,  painting, 
drama,  music,  is  of  sight  or  hearing,  f The 
reason  is  simple.  Sight  and  hearing  are  the 
distant  senses;  sight  is,  as  some  one  has  well 
said,  “touch  at  a distance.”  Sight  and  hear- 
ing are  of  things  already  detached  and  some- 
what remote;  they  are  the  fitting  channels  for 
art  which  is  cut  loose  from  immediate  action 
and  reaction^  Taste  and  touch  are  too  in- 
timate, too  immediately  vital.  In  Russian, 
as  Tolstoi  has  pointed  out  (and  indeed  in  other 
languages  the  same  is  observable),  the  word 
for  beauty  (krasota)  means,  to  begin  with, 
only  that  which  pleases  the  sight.  Even 
hearing  is  excluded.  And  though  latterly 
people  have  begun  to  speak  of  an  “ugly  deed” 
or  of  “beautiful  music,”  it  is  not  good  Rus- 
sian. The  simple  Russian  does  not  make 
Plato’s  divine  muddle  between  the  good  and 
the  beautiful.  If  a man  gives  his  coat  to 
another,  the  Russian  peasant,  knowing  no 
foreign  language,  will  not  say  the  man  hap 
acted  “beautifully.” 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


133 


I To  see  a thing,  to  feel  a thing,  as  a work  of 
Ikrt,  we  must,  then,  become  for  the  time  un- 
practical, must  be  loosed  from  the  fear  and 
the  flurry  of  actual  living,  must  become 
spectators.  Why  is  this.?  Why  can  we  not 
live  and  look  at  once.?  The /aci  that  we  can- 
not is  clear.  If  we  watch  a friend  drowning 
we  do  not  note  the  exquisite  curve  made  by 
his  body  as  he  falls  into  the  water,  nor  the 
play  of  the  sunlight  on  the  ripples  as  he  dis- 
appears below  the  surface;  we  should  be  in- 
human, aesthetic  fiends  if  we  did.  And  again, 
why.?  It  would  do  our  friend  no  harm  that 
we  should  enjoy  the  curves  and  the  sunlight, 
provided  we  also  threw  him  a rope.  But  the 
simple  fact  is  that  we  cannot  look  at  the  curves 
and  the  sunlight  because  our  whole  being  is 
centred  on  acting,  on  saving  him;  we  cannot 
even,  at  the  moment,  fully  feel  our  own  terror 
and  impending  loss.  So  again  if  we  want  to 
see  and  to  feel  the  splendour  and  vigour  of 
a lion,  or  even  to  watch  the  cumbrous  grace 
of  a bear,  we  prefer  that  a cage  should  in- 
tervene. The  cage  cuts  off  the  need  for  motor 
actions;  it  interposes  the  needful  physical 
and  moral  distance,  and  we  are  free  for  con- 
templation. Released  from  om*  own  terrors. 


134  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


we  see  more  and  better,  and  we  feel  differ- 
ently. A man  intent  on  action  is  like  a horse 
in  blinkers,  he  goes  straight  forward,  seeing 
only  the  road  ahead. 

i^Our  brain  is,  indeed,  it  would  seem,  in  part, 
an  elaborate  arrangement  for  providing  these 
blinkers.  If  we  saw  and  realized  the  whole 
of  everything,  we  should  want  to  do  too  many 
things.  The  brain  allows  us  not  only  to 
remember,  but,  which  is  quite  as  important, 
to  forget  and  neglect;  it  is  an  organ  of  ob- 
livion^ By  neglecting  most  of  the  things  we 
see  and  hear,  we  can  focus  just  on  those  which 
are  important  for  action;  we  can  cease  to  be 
potential  artists  and  become  efficient,  prac- 
tical human  beings;  but  it  is  only  by  limiting 
our  view,  by  a great  renunciation  as  to  the 
things  we  see  and  feel.  /The  artist  does 
just  the  reverse.  He  renounces  doing  in 
order  to  practise  seeing  He  is  by  nature 
what  Professor  Bergson  calls  “distrait,” 
aloof,  absent-minded;(_intent  only,  or  mainly, 
on  contemplation.  < That  is  why  the  ordinary 
man  often  thinks  the  artist  a fool/ or,  if  he 
does  not  go  so  far  as  that,  is  made  vaguely 
uncomfortable  Jby  him,  never  really  under- 
stands him.  ^he  artist’s  focus,  all  his  system 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


135 


of  values,  is  different,  his  world  is  a world  of 
images  which  are  his  reahties,/ 

The  distinction  between  art  and  ritual, 
which  has  so  long  haunted  and  puzzled  us, 
now  comes  out  quite  clearly,  and  also  in  part 
the  relation  of  each  to  actual  life.  Ritual,  we 
saw,  was  a re-presentation  or  a pre-presen- 
tation, a re-doing  or  pre-doing,  a copy  or 
imitation  of  life,  but, — and  this  is  the  impor- 
tant point, — always  with  a practical  end. 
Art  is  also  a representation  of  hfe  and  the 
emotions  of  life,  but  cut  loose  from  immediate 
aetion.  Action  may  be  and  often  is  repre- 
sented, but  it  is  not  that  it  may  lead  on  to  a 
practical  further  end.  The  end  of  art  is  in 
itself.  Its  value  is  not  mediate  but  t'wme-; 
diate.  Thus  ritual  makes,  as  it  were,  a bridge 
between  real  life  and  art,  a bridge  over  which 
in  primitive  times  it  would  seem  man  must 
pass.  In  his  actual  life  he  hunts  and  fishes 
and  ploughs  and  sows,  being  utterly  intent 
on  the  practical  end  of  gaining  his  food;  in 
the  dromenon  of  the  Spring  Festival,  though 
his  acts  are  unpractical,  being  mere  singing 
and  dancing  and  mimicry,  his  intent  is  practi- 
cal, to  induce  the  return  of  his  food-supply. 


136  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 

/T 

<ln  the  drama  the  representation  may  remain 
for  a time  the  same,  but  the  intent  is  altered : 
man  has  come  out  from  action,  he  is  separate 
from  the  dancers,  and  has  become  a spectator. 
The  drama  is  an  end  in  itself.  J 

We  know  from  tradition  that  in  Athens 
ritual  became  art,  a dromenon  became  the 
drama,  and  we  have  seen  that  the  shift  is 
symbolized  and  expressed  by  the  addition  of 
the  theatre,  or  spectator-place,  to  the  orches- 
tra, or  dancing-place.  We  have  also  tried  to 
analyse  the  meaning  of  the  shift.  It  remains 
to  ask  what  was  its  cause.  Ritual  does  not 
always  develop  into  art,  though  in  all  proba- 
bility dramatic  art  has  always  to  go  through 
the  stage  of  ritual.  The  leap  from  real  life 
to  the  emotional  contemplation  of  life  cut 
loose  from  action  would  otherwise  be  too 
wide.  Nature  abhors  a leap,  sh&  prefers  to 
crawl  over  the  ritual  bridge,  ^here  seem 
at  Athens  to  have  been  two  main  causes  why 
the  dromenon  passed  swiftly,  inevitably,  into 
the  drama.  They  are,  first,  the  decay  of 
religious  faith;  second,  the  influx  from  abroad  / 
of  a new  culture  and  new  dramatic  materigj/ 

It  may  seem  surprising  to  some  that  the 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


137 


decay  of  religious  faith  should  be  an  impulse 
to  the  birth  of  art.  We  are  accustomed  to 
talk  rather  vaguely  of  art  “as  the  handmaid 
of  rehgion”;  we  think  of  art  as  “inspired 
by”  religion.  But  the  decay  of  religious 
faith  of  which  we  now  speak  is  not  the  decay 
of  faith  in  a god,  or  even  the  decay  of  some 
high  spiritual  emotion;  it  is  the  decay  of  a 
belief  in  the  efficacy  of  certain  magical  rites,** 
and  especially  of  the  Spring  Rite.  So  long 
as  people  believed  that  by  excited  dancing, 
by  bringing  in  an  image  or  leading  in  a bull 
you  could  induce  the  coming  of  Spring,  so 
long  would  the  dromena  of  the  Dithyramb 
be  enacted  with  intense  enthusiasm,  and  with 
this  enthusiasm  would  come  an  actual  acces- 
sion and  invigoration  of  vital  force.  But, 
once  the  faintest  doubt  crept  in,  once  men 
began  to  be  guided  by  experience  rather  than 
custom,  the  enthusiasm  would  die  down,  and 
the  collective  mvigoration  no  longer  be  felt. 
Then  some  day  there  will  be  a bad  summer, 
things  will  go  all  wrong,  and  the  chorus  will 
sadly  ask:  “Why  should  I dance  my  dance.^ ” 
They  will  drift  away  or  become  mere  spec- 
tators of  a rite  established  by  custom.  The 
rite  itseK  will  die  down,  or  it  will  live  on 


138  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


only  as  the  May  Day  rites  of  to-day,  a 
children’s  play,  or  at  best  a thing  done 
vaguely  “for  luck.” 

The  spirit  of  the  rite,  the  belief  in  its 
eflGicacy,  dies,  but  the  rite  itself,  the  actual 
mould,  persists,  and  it  is  this  ancient  ritual 
mould,  foreign  to  our  own  usage,  that  strikes 
us  to-day,  when  a Greek  play  is  revived,  as 
odd  and  perhaps  chill.  A chorus,  a band  of 
dancers  there  must  be,  because  the  drama 
arose  out  of  a ritual  dance.  An  agon,  or 
contest,  or  wrangling,  there  will  probably  be, 
because  Summer  contends  with  Winter,  Life 
with  Death,  the  New  Year  with  the  Old. 
A tragedy  must  be  tragic,  must  have  its 
'pathos,  because  the  Winter,  the  Old  Year, 
must  die.  There  must  needs  be  a swift 
transition,  a clash  and  change  from  sorrow 
to  joy,  what  the  Greeks  called  a peripeteia, 
a quick-turn-round,  because,  though  you 
carry  out  Winter,  you  bring  in  Summer. 
At  the  end  we  shall  have  an  Appearance,  an 
Epiphany  of  a god,  because  the  whole  gist 
of  the  ancient  ritual  was  to  summon  the 
spirit  of  life.  All  these  ritual  forms  haimt 
and  shadow  the  play,  whatever  its  plot,  like 
ancient  traditional  ghosts;  they  underlie  and 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


139 


sway  the  movement  and  the  speeches  like 
some  compelling  rhythm. 

/^ow  this  ritual  mould,  this  imderlying 
rhythm,  is  a fine  thing  ia  itself;  and,  more- 
over, it  was  once  shaped  and  cast  by  a hving 
spirit:  the  intense  immediate  desire  for  food 
and  life,  and  for  the  return  of  the  seasons 
which  bring  that  food  and  life^  But  we  have 
seen  that,  once  the  faith  m man’s  power 
magically  to  bring  back  these  seasons  waned, 
once  he  began  to  doubt  whether  he  could 
really  carry  out  Winter  and  bring  in  Summer, 
his  emotion  towards  these  rites  would  cool. 
Further,  we  have  seen  that  these  rites  re- 
peated year  by  year  ended,  among  an  imagin- 
ative people,  in  the  mental  creation  of  some 
sort  of  daemon  or  god.  This  daemon,  or  god, 
was  more  and  more  held  responsible  on  his 
own  account  for  the  food-supply  and  the  order 
of  the  Horae,  or  Seasons;  so  we  get  the  notion 
that  this  daemon  or  god  himself  led  in  the 
Seasons;  Hermes  dances  at  the  head  of  the 
Charites,  or  an  Eiresione  is  carried  to  Helios 
and  the  Horae.  The  thought  then  arises  that 
this  man-like  daemon  who  rose  from  a real 
King  of  the  May,  must  himself  be  approached 
and  dealt  with  as  a man,  bargained  with. 


140  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


sacrificed  to.  In  a word,  in  place  of  dromena, 
things  done,  we  get  gods  worshipped;  in  place 
of  sacraments,  holy  bulls  killed  and  eaten 
in  common,  we  get  sacrifices  in  the  modem 
sense,  holy  bulls  offered  to  yet  holier  gods. 
The  relation  of  these  figures  of  gods  to  art 
we  shall  consider  when  we  come  to  sculpture. 

So  the  dromenon,  the  thing  done,  wanes, 
the  prayer,  the  praise,  the  sacrifice  waxes. 
Religion  moves  away  from  drama  towards 
theology,  but  the  ritual  mould  of  the  dromenon 
is  left  ready  for  a new  content. 

Again,  there  is  another  point.  The  magi- 
cal dromenon,  the  Carrying  out  of  Winter, 
the  Bringing  in  of  Spring,  is  doomed  to  an  in- 
herent and  deadly  monotony.  It  is  only 
when  its  magical  efficacy  is  intensely  be- 
lieved that  it  can  go  on.  The  life-history  of  a 
holy  bull  is  always  the  same;  its  magical 
essence  is  that  it  should  be  the  same.  Even 
when  the  life-daemon  is  human  his  career  is 
unchequered.  He  is  born,  initiated,  or  born 
again;  he  is  married,  grows  old,  dies,  is  bur- 
ied; and  the  old,  old  story  is  told  again  next 
year.  There  are  no  fresh  personal  incidents 
peculiar  to  one  particular  daemon.  If  the 
drama  rose  from  the  Spring  Song  only,  beau- 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


141 


tiful  it  might  be,  but  with  a beauty  that  was 
monotonous,  a beauty  doomed  to  sterility. 

We  seem  to  have  come  to  a sort  of  impasse, 
the  spirit  of  the  dromenon  is  dead  or  dying, 
the  spectators  will  not  stay  long  to  watch  a 
doing  doomed  to  monotony.  The  ancient 
moulds  are  there,  the  old  bottles,  but  where  / 
is  the  new  wine.'*  The  pool  is  stagnant; 
what  angel  will  step  down  to  trouble  the 
waters? 


/ 


Fortunately  we  are  not  left  to  conjecture 
what  might  have  happened.  In  the  case  of 
Greece  we  know,  though  not  as  clearly  as  we  I 
wish,  what  did  happen.  We  can  see  in  part 
why,  though  the  dromena  of  Adonis  and 
Osiris,  emotional  as  they  were  and  intensely  ^ 
picturesque,  remained  mere  ritual;  the  dro- 
menon of  Dionysos,  his  Dithyramb,  blossomed 
into  drama. 

Let  us  look  at  the  facts,  and  first  at  some 
structural  facts  in  the  building  of  the  theatre. 

We  have  seen  that  the  orchestra,  with  its 
dancing  chorus,  stands  for  ritual,  for  the 
stage  in  which  all  were  worshippers,  all 
joined  in  a rite  of  practical  intent.  We 
further  saw  that  the  theatre,  the  place  for  the 


UJ  V 


142  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


spectators,  stood  for  art.  In  the  orchestra 
all  is  hfe  and  dancing;  the  marble  seats  are 
the  very  symbol  of  rest,  aloofness  from  action, 
contemplation.  The  seats  for  the  spectators 
grow  and  grow  in  importance  till  at  last  they 
absorb,  as  it  were,  the  whole  spirit,  and  give 
their  name  theatre  to  the  whole  structure; 
action  is  swallowed  up  in  contemplation. 
But  contemplation  of  what.?  At  first,  of 
course,  of  the  ritual  dance,  but  not  for  long. 
That,  we  have  seen,  was  doomed  to  a deadly 
monotony.  In  a Greek  theatre  there  was 
not  only  orchestra  and  a spectator-place, 
there  was  also  a scene  or  stage. 

The  Greek  word  for  stage  is,  as  we  said, 
skene,  our  scene.  The  scene  was  not  a stage 
in  our  sense,  i.  e.  a platform  raised  so  that 
the  players  might  be  better  viewed.  It  was 
simply  a tent,  or  rude  hut,  in  which  the  play- 
ers, or  rather  dancers,  could  put  on  their  ritual 
dresses.  The  fact  that  the  Greek  theatre 
had,  to  begin  with,  no  permanent  stage  in 
our  sense,  shows  very  clearly  how  little  it 
was  regarded  as  a spectacle.  The  ritual 
dance  was  a dromenon,  a thu^  to  be  done, 
not  a thing  to  be  looked  at.  <^he  history  of 
the  Greek  stage  is  one  long  story  of  the 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 

encroachment  of  the  stage  on  the 
At  first  a rude  platform  or  table 
then  scenery  is  added;  the  movable  tent  is 
translated  into  a stone  house  or  a temple 
front.  This  stands  at  first  outside  the 
orchestra;  then  bit  by  bit  the  scene  encroaches 
till  the  sacred  circle  of  the  dancing-place  is 
cut  clean  across.  As  the  drama  and  the 
stage  wax,  the  dromenon  and  the  orchestra 
wane. 

This  shift  in  the  relation  of  dancing-place  / 
and  stage  is  very  clearly  seen  in  Fig.  2,  a plan 
of  the  Dionysiac  theatre  at  Athens  (p.  144). 
The  old  circular  orchestra  shows  the  domin- 
ance of  ritual;  the  new  curtailed  orchestra  of 
Roman  times  and  semicircular  shape  shows 
the  dominance  of  the  spectacle. 

Greek  tragedy  arose,  Aristotle  has  told  us, 
from  the  leaders  of  the  Dithyramb,  the  leaders 
of  the  Spring  Dance.  The  Spring  Dance,  the 
mime  of  Summer  and  Wmter,  had,  as  we 
have  seen,  only  one  actor,  one  actor  with 
two  parts — Death  and  Life.  With  only  one 
play  to  be  played,  and  that  a one-actor  play, 
there  was  not  much  need  for  a stage.  A 
scene,  that  is  a tent,  was  needed,  as  we  saw, 
because  all  the  dancers  had  to  put  on  their 


orchestra^ 
is  set  up. 


WALL  OF 


fig- 2 DionysiAc  thc^re  at  Athens. 


144 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


145 


ritual  gear,  but  scarcely  a stage.  From  a 
rude  platform  the  prologue  might  be  spoken, 
and  on  that  platform  the  Epiphany  or  Appear- 
ance of  the  New  Year  might  take  place;  but 
the  play  played,  the  life-history  of  the  life- 
spirit,  was  all  too  famihar;  there  was  no 
need  to  look,  the  thing  was  to  dance.  You 
need  a stage — not  necessarily  a raised  stage, 
but  a place  apart  from  the  dancers — when 
you  have  new  material  for  your  players, 
something  you  need  to  look  at,  to  attend  to. 
In  the  sixth  century  b.c.,  at  Athens,  came 
the  great  innovation.  Instead  of  the  old 
plot,  the  life-history,  of  the  hfe-spirit,  with 
its  deadly  monotony,  new  plots  were  intro- 
duced, not  of  life-spirits  but  of  human 
individual  heroes.  In  a word,  Homer  came 
to  Athens,  and  out  of  Homeric  stories  play- 
wrights began  to  make  their  plots.  This 
innovation  was  the  death  of  ritual  monotony 
and  the  dromenon.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
old  that  dies  as  the  new  that  kills. 

iEschylus  himself  is  reported  to  have  said 
that  his  tragedies  were  “slices  from  the  great 
banquet  of  Homer.”  The  metaphor  is  not 
a very  pleasing  one,  but  it  expresses  a truth. 


146  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


By  Homer,  ^schylus  meant  not  only  our 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  but  the  whole  body  of 
Epic  or  Heroic  poetry  which  centred  round 
not  only  the  Siege  of  Troy  but  the  great 
expedition  of  the  Seven  Against  Thebes,  and 
which,  moreover,  contained  the  stories  of 
the  heroes  before  the  siege  began,  and  their 
adventures  after  it  was  ended.  It  was  from 
these  heroic  sagas  for  the  most  part,  though 
not  wholly,  that  the  myths  or  plots  of  not 
only  yEschylus  but  also  Sophocles  and 
Euripides,  and  a host  of  other  writers  whose 
plays  are  lost  to  us,  are  taken.  The  new  wine 
that  was  poured  into  the  old  bottles  of  the 
dromena  at  the  Spring  Festival  was  the 
heroic  saga.  We  know  as  an  historical  fact, 
the  name  of  the  man  who  was  mainly  re- 
sponsible for  this  inpouring — the  great  demo- 
cratic tyrant  Peisistratos.  We  must  look  for 
a moment  at  what  Peisistratos  found,  and 
then  pass  to  what  he  did. 

He  found  an  ancient  Spring  dromenon, 
perhaps  well-nigh  effete.  Without  destroy- 
ing the  old  he  contrived  to  introduce  the  new, 
to  add  to  the  old  plot  of  Summer  and  Winter 
the  life-stories  of  heroes,  and  thereby  arose 
the  drama. 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART  147 

Let  us  look  first,  then,  at  what  Peisistratos 
found. 

The  April  festival  of  Dionysos  at  which  the 
great  dramas  were  performed  was  not  the 
earliest  festival  of  the  god.  Thucydides^ 
expressly  tells  us  that  on  the  12th  day  of  the 
month  Anthesterion,  that  is  in  the  quite 
early  spring,  at  the  turn  of  our  February 
and  March,  were  celebrated  the  more  ancient 
Dionysia.  It  was  a three-days’  festival.^ 
On  the  first  day,  called  “Cask-opening,”  the 
jars  of  new  wine  were  broached.  Among 
the  Boeotians  the  day  was  called  not  the  day 
of  Dionysos,  but  the  day  of  the  Good  or 
Wealthy  Daimon.  The  next  day  was  called 
the  day  of  the  “Cups” — there  was  a contest 
or  agon  of  drinking.  The  last  day  was  called 
the  “Pots,”  and  it,  too,  had  its  “Pot-Con- 
tests.” It  is  the  ceremonies  of  this  day  that 
we  must  notice  a little  in  detail;  for  they 
are  very  surprising.  “Casks,”  “Cups,”  and 
“Pots,”  sound  primitive  enough.  “Casks” 
and  “Cups”  go  well  with  the  wine-god,  but 
the  “Pots”  call  for  explanation. 

The  second  day  of  the  “Cups,”  joyful 

1 II,  15. 

“ See  my  Themis,  p.  289,  and  Prolegomena,  p.  35. 


148  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


though  it  sounds,  was  by  the  Athenians 
counted  unlucky,  because  on  that  day  they 
believed  “the  ghosts  of  the  dead  rose  up,” 
The  sanctuaries  were  roped  in,  each  house- 
holder anointed  his  door  with  pitch,  that  the 
ghost  who  tried  to  enter  might  catch  and 
stick  there.  Further,  to  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  from  early  dawn  he  chewed  a 
bit  of  buckthorn,  a plant  of  strong  purgative 
powers,  so  that,  if  a ghost  should  by  evil 
chance  go  down  his  throat,  it  should  at  least 
be  promptly  expelled. 

For  two,  perhaps  three,  days  of  constant 
anxiety  and  ceaseless  precautions  the  ghosts 
fluttered  about  Athens.  Men’s  hearts  were 
full  of  nameless  dread,  and,  as  we  shall  see, 
hope.  At  the  close  of  the  third  day  the 
ghosts,  or,  as  the  Greeks  called  them,  Keres, 
were  bidden  to  go.  Some  one,  we  do  not 
know  whom,  it  may  be  each  father  of  a house- 
hold, pronounced  the  words:  “Out  of  the 
door,  ye  Keres;  it  is  no  longer  Anthesteria,” 
and,  obedient,  the  Keres  were  gone. 

But  before  they  went  there  was  a supper  for 
these  souls.  All  the  citizens  cooked  a 'pan- 
spermia or  “Pot-of-all -Seeds,”  but  of  this  Pot- 
of-all-Seeds  no  citizen  tasted.  It  was  made 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


149 


over  to  the  spirits  of  the  under-world  and 
Hermes  their  daimon,  Hermes  “Psycho- 
pompos,”  Conductor,  Leader  of  the  dead. 

We  have  seen  how  a forest  people,  depend- 
ent on  fruit  trees  and  berries  for  their  food, 
will  carry  a maypole  and  imagine  a tree-spirit. 
But  a people  of  agriculturists  will  feel  and  do 
and  think  quite  otherwise;  they  will  look, 
not  to  the  forest  but  to  the  earth  for  their 
returning  life  and  food;  they  will  sov/  seeds 
and  wait  for  their  sprouting,  as  in  the  gardens 
of  Adonis.  Adonis  seems  to  have  passed 
through  the  two  stages  of  Tree-Spirit  and 
Seed-Spirit;  his  effigy  was  sometimes  a tree 
cut  down,  sometimes  his  planted  “Gardens.” 
Now  seeds  are  many,  innumerable,  and  they 
are  planted  in  the  earth,  and  a people  who 
bury  their  dead  know,  or  rather  feel,  that  the 
earth  is  dead  man’s  land.  So,  when  they 
prepare  a pot  of  seeds  on  their  All  Souls’  Day, 
it  is  not  really  or  merely  as  a “supper  for 
the  souls,”  though  it  may  be  that  kindly 
notion  enters.  The  ghosts  have  other  work 
to  do  than  to  eat  their  supper  and  go.  They 
take  that  supper  “of  all  seeds,”  that  'pan- 
spermia, with  them  down  to  the  world  below. 


150  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


that  they  may  tend  it  and  foster  it  and  bring 
it  back  in  autumn  as  a pot  of  all  fruits,  a 
pankarpia. 

“Thou  fool,  that  which  thou  sowest  is  not 
quickened  except  it  die.” 

The  dead,  then,  as  well  as  the  living — this 
is  for  us  the  important  point — had  their  share 
in  the  dromena  of  the  “more  ancient  Dio- 
nysia.”  These  agricultural  spring  dromena 
were  celebrated  just  outside  the  ancient  city 
gates,  in  the  agora,  or  place  of  assembly,  on 
a circular  dancing-place,  near  to  a very 
primitive  sanctuary  of  Dionysos  which  was 
opened  only  once  in  the  year,  at  the  Feast  of 
Cups.  Just  outside  the  gates  was  celebrated 
yet  another  festival  of  Dionysos  equally  prim- 
itive, called  the  “Dionysia  in  the  Fields.” 
It  had  the  form  though  not  the  date  of  our 
May  Day  festival.  Plutarch^  thus  laments 
over  the  “good  old  times”:  “In  ancient 

days,”  he  says,  “our  fathers  used  to  keep  the 
feast  of  Dionysos  in  homely,  jovial  fashion. 
There  was  a procession,  a jar  of  wine  and 
a branch;  then  some  one  dragged  in  a goat, 
* De  Cupid,  div.  8. 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


151 


another  followed  bringing  a wicker  basket 
of  figs,  and,  to  crown  all,  the  phallos.”  It 
was  just  a festival  of  the  fruits  of  the  whole 
earth:  wine  and  the  basket  of  figs  and  the 
branch  for  vegetation,  the  goat  for  animal 
life,  the  phallos  for  man.  No  thought  here 
of  the  dead,  it  is  all  for  the  living  and  his 
food. 

Such  sanctities  even  a great  tyrant  might 
not  tamper  with.  But  if  you  may  not  upset 
the  old  you  may  without  irreverence  add 
the  new.  Peisistratos  probably  cared  little 
for,  and  believed  less  in,  magical  ceremonies 
for  the  renewal  of  fruits,  incantations  of  the 
dead.  We  can  scarcely  picture  him  chewing 
buckthorn  on  the  day  of  the  “Cups,”  or 
anointing  his  front  door  with  pitch  to  keep 
out  the  ghosts.  Very  wisely  he  left  the 
Anthesteria  and  the  kindred  festival  “in  the 
fields”  where  and  as  they  were.  But  for  his 
own  purposes  he  wanted  to  do  honour  to 
Dionysos,  and  also  above  all  things  to  enlarge 
and  improve  the  rites  done  in  the  god’s 
honour,  so,  leaving  the  old  sanctuary  to  its 
fate,  he  built  a new  temple  on  the  south  side 
of  the  Acropolis  where  the  present  theatre 


152  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


now  stands,  and  consecrated  to  the  god  a 
new  and  more  splendid  precinct. 

He  did  not  build  the  present  theatre,  we 
must  always  remember  that.  The  rows  of 
stone  seats,  the  chief  priest’s  splendid  marble 
chair,  were  not  erected  till  two  centuries  later. 
What  Peisistratos  did  was  to  build  a small 
stone  temple  (see  Fig.  2),  and  a great  round 
orchestra  of  stone  close  beside  it.  Small 
fragments  of  the  circular  foundation  can 
still  be  seen.  The  spectators  sat  on  the  hill- 
side or  on  wooden  seats;  there  was  as  yet  no 
permanent  theatron  or  spectator-place,  still 
less  a stone  stage;  the  dromena  were  done 
on  the  dancing-place.  But  for  spectator- 
place  they  had  the  south  slope  of  the  Acrop- 
olis. What  kind  of  wooden  stage  they  had 
unhappily  we  cannot  tell.  It  may  be  that 
only  a portion  of  the  orchestra  was  marked 
off. 

Why  did  Peisistratos,  if  he  cared  little  for 
“magic  and  ancestral  ghosts,  take  such 
trouble  to  foster  and  amplify  the  worship  of 
this  maypole-spirit,  Dionysos?  Why  did  he 
add  to  the  Anthesteria,  the  festival  of  the 
family  ghosts  and  the  peasant  festival  “in  the 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


153 


fields,”  a new  and  splendid  festival,  a little 
later  in  the  spring,  the  Great  Dionysia,  or 
Dionysia  of  the  City?  One  reason  amo 
others  was  this — Peisistratos  was  a “tyrant 


Now  a Greek  “tyrant”  was  not  in  o 
sense  “tyrannical.”  He  took  his  own  way, 
it  is  true,  but  that  way  was  to  help  and  serve 
the  common  people.  The  tyrant  was  usually 
raised  to  his  position  by  the  people,  and  he 
stood  for  democracy,  for  trade  and  industry, 
as  against  an  idle  aristocracy.  It  was  but  a 
rudimentary  democracy,  a democratic  tyr- 
anny, the  power  vested  in  one  man,  but  it 
stood  for  the  rights  of  the  many  as  against 
the  few.  Moreover,  Dionysos  was  always 
of  the  people,  of  the  “working  classes,”  just 
as  the  King  and  Queen  of  the  May  are  now. 
The  upper  classes  worshipped  then,  as  now, 
not  the  Spirit  of  Spring  but  their  own  ancestors. 
But — and  this  was  what  Peisistratos  with 
great  insight  saw — Dionysos  must  be  trans- 
planted from  the  fields  to  the  city.  The 
country  is  always  conservative,  the  natural 
stronghold  of  a landed  aristocracy,  with 
fixed  traditions;  the  city  with  its  closer  con- 
tacts and  consequent  swifter  changes,  and, 
above  all,  with  its  acquired,  not  inherited. 


154  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


wealth,  tends  towards  democraey.  Peisis- 
tratos  left  the  Dionysia  “in  the  fields,”  but  he 
added  the  Great  Dionysia  “in  the  city.” 

Peisistratos  was  not  the  only  tyrant  who 
concerned  himself  with  the  dromena  of  Dio- 
nysos. Herodotos^  tells  the  story  of  another 
tyrant,  a story  which  is  like  a window  open- 
ing suddenly  on  a dark  room.  At  Sicyon,  a 
town  near  Corinth,  there  was  in  the  agora 
a heroon,  a hero-tomb,  of  an  Argive  hero, 
Adrastos. 

“The  Sicyonians,”  says  Herodotos,  “paid 
other  honours  to  Adrastos,  and,  moreover, 
they  celebrated  his  death  and  disasters  with 
tragic  choruses,  not  honouring  Dionysos  but 
Adrastos.”  We  think  of  “tragic”  choruses 
as  belonging  exclusively  to  the  theatre  and 
Dionysos;  so  did  Herodotus,  but  clearly  here 
they  belonged  to  a local  hero.  His  adven- 
tures and  his  death  were  commemorated  by 
choral  dances  and  songs.  Now  when  Cleis- 
thenes  became  tyrant  of  Sicyon  he  felt  that 
the  cult  of  the  local  hero  was  a danger.  What 
did  he  do?  Very  adroitly  he  brought  in 
from  Thebes  another  hero  as  rival  to  Adras- 
tos. He  then  split  up  the  worship  of  Adras- 


1 V.  66. 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


155 


tos;  paxt  of  his  worship,  and  especially  his 
sacrifices,  he  gave  to  the  new  Theban  hero, 
but  the  tragic  choruses  he  gave  to  the  common 
people’s  god,  to  Dionysos.  Adrastos,  the 
objectionable  hero,  was  left  to  dwindle  and 
die.  No  local  hero  can  live  on  without  his 
cult. 

The  act  of  Cleisthenes  seems  to  us  a very 
• drastic  proceeding.  But  perhaps  it  was  not 
really  as  revolutionary  as  it  seems.  The 
local  hero  was  not  so  very  unlike  a local 
doemon,  a Spring  or  Winter  spirit.  We 
have  seen  in  the  Anthesteria  how  the  paternal 
ghosts  are  expected  to  look  after  the  seeds 
in  spring.  The  more  important  the  ghost 
the  more  incumbent  is  this  duty  upon  him. 
Noblesse  oblige.  On  the  river  Olynthiakos^ 
in  Northern  Greece  stood  the  tomb  of  the 
hero  Olynthos,  who  gave  the  river  its  name. 
In  the  spring  months  of  Anthesterion  and 
Elaphebolion  the  river  rises  and  an  immense 
shoal  of  fish  pass  from  the  lake  of  Bolbe 
to  the  river  of  Olynthiakos,  and  the  inhabi- 
tants round  about  can  lay  in  a store  of  salt 
fish  for  all  their  needs.  “And  it  is  a won- 
derful fact  that  they  never  pass  by  the  monu- 
ment of  Olynthus.  They  say  that  formerly 

1 Athen.  VIII,  ii,  334  f.  See  my  Prolegomena,  p.  54. 


156  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  people  used  to  perform  the  accustomed 
rites  to  the  dead  in  the  month  Elaphebolion, 
but  now  they  do  them  in  Anthesterion, 
and  that  on  this  account  the  fish  come  up  in 
those  months  only  in  which  they  are  wont  to 
do  honour  to  the  dead.”  The  river  is  the 
chief  source  of  the  food-supply,  so  to  send 
fish,  not  seeds  and  flowers,  is  the  dead  hero’s 
business. 

Peisistratos  was  not  so  daring  as  Cleis- 
thenes.  We  do  not  hear  that  he  disturbed 
or  diminished  any  local  cult.  He  did  not  at- 
tempt to  move  the  Anthesteria  with  its  ghost 
cult;  he  only  added  a new  festival,  and 
trusted  to  its  recent  splendour  gradually  to 
efface  the  old.  And  at  this  new  festival  he 
celebrated  the  deeds  of  other  heroes,  not 
local  but  of  greater  splendour  and  of  wider 
fame.  If  he  did  not  bring  Homer  to  Athens, 
he  at  least  gave  Homer  official  recognition. 
Now  to  bring  Homer  to  Athens  was  like 
opening  the  eyes  of  the  blind. 

Cicero,  in  speaking  of  the  influence  of 
Peisistratos  on  literature,  says:  “He  is  said 
to  have  arranged  in  their  present  order  the 
works  of  Homer,  which  were  previously  in 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


157 


confusion.”  He  arranged  them  not  for  what 
we  should  call  “publication,”  but  for  public 
recitation,  and  another  tradition  adds  that  he 
or  his  son  fixed  the  order  of  their  recitation 
at  the  great  festival  of  “All  Athens,”  the 
Panathenaia.  Homer,  of  course,  was  known 
before  in  Athens  in  a scrappy  way;  now  he 
was  publicly,  officially  promulgated.  It  is 
probable,  though  not  certain,  that  the 
“Homer”  which  Peisistratos  prescribed  for 
recitation  at  the  Panathenaia  was  just  our 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  and  that  the  rest  of  the 
heroic  cycle,  all  the  remaining  “slices”  from 
the  heroic  banquet,  remained  as  material  for 
dithyrambs  and  dramas.  The  “tyranny” 
of  Peisistratos  and  his  son  lasted  from  560  to 
501  B.C.;  tradition  said  that  the  first  dra- 
matic contest  was  held  in  the  new  theatre 
built  by  Peisistratos  in  535  b.c.,  when  Thespis 
won  the  prize.  iEschylus  was  born  in  525 
B.C.;  his  first  play,  with  a plot  from  the 
heroic  saga,  the  Seven  Against  Thebes,  was 
produced  in  467  b.c.  It  all  came  very 
swiftly,  the  shift  from  the  dithyramb  as 
Spring  Song  to  the  heroic  drama  was  ac- 
complished in  something  much  imder  a 
century.  Its  effect  on  the  whole  of  Greek 


158  ANCIENT  AKT  AND  RITUAL 


life  and  religion — nay,  on  the  whole  of  subse- 
quent literature  and  thought — was  incal- 
culable. Let  us  try  to  see  why. 

Homer  was  the  outcome,  the  expression, 
of  an  “heroic”  age.  When  we  use  the  word 
“heroic”  we  think  vaguely  of  something 
brave,  brilliant,  splendid,  something  exciting 
and  invigorating.  A hero  is  to  us  a man  of 
clear,  vivid  personality,  valiant,  generous, 
perhaps  hot-tempered,  a good  friend  and  a 
good  hater.  The  word  “hero”  calls  up  such 
figures  as  Achilles,  Patroklos,  Hector,  figures 
of  passion  and  adventure.  Now  such  figures, 
with  their  special  virtues,  and  perhaps  their 
proper  vices,  are  not  confined  to  Homer. 
They  occur  in  any  and  every  heroic  age.  We 
are  beginning  now  to  see  that  heroic  poetry, 
heroic  characters,  do  not  arise  from  any 
peculiarity  of  race  or  even  of  geographical 
surroundings,  but,  given  certain  social  con- 
ditions, they  may,  and  do,  appear  anywhere 
and  at  any  time.  The  world  has  seen  several 
heroic  ages,  though  it  is,  perhaps,  doubtful  if 
it  will  ever  see  another.  What,  then,  are  the 
conditions  that  produce  an  heroic  age.?*  and 
why  was  this  influx  of  heroic  poetry,  coming 


FEOM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


159 


just  when  it  did,  of  such  immense  influence 
on,  and  importance  to,  the  development  of 
Greek  dramatic  art?  Why  had  it  power  to 
change  the  old,  stiff,  ritual  dithyramb  into 
the  new  and  living  drama?  Why,  above  all 
things,  did  the  democratic  tyrant  Peisistratos 
so  eagerly  welcome  it  to  Athens? 

n the  old  ritual  dance  the  individual  was 
nothing,  the  choral  band,  the  group,  every- 
thing, and  in  this  it  did  but  reflect  primitive 
tribal  life^^Now  in  the  heroic  saga  the 
individual  is  everything,  the  mass  of  the 
people,  the  tribe,  or  the  group,  are  but  a 
shadowy  background  which  throws  up  the 
brilhant,  clear-cut  personality  into  a more 
vivid  light.  The  epic  poet  is  all  taken  up 
with  what  he  called  Mea  andron,  “glorious 
deeds  of  men,”  of  individual  heroes;  and 
what  these  heroes  themselves  ardently  long 
and  pray  for  is  just  this  glory,  this  per- 
sonal distinction,  this  deathless  fame  for 
their  great  deeds.  When  the  armies  meet 
it  is  the  leaders  who  fight  in  single  combat. 
These  glorious  heroes  are  for  the  most  part 
kings,  but  not  kings  in  the  old  sense,  not 
hereditary  kings  bound  to  the  soil  and  re- 
sponsible for  its  fertility.  Rather  they  are 


160  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


leaders  in  war  and  adventure;  the  homage 
paid  them  is  a personal  devotion  for  personal 
character;  the  leader  must  win  his  followers 
by  bravery,  he  must  keep  them  by  personal 
generosity.  Moreover,  heroic  wars  are  often- 
est  not  tribal  feuds  consequent  on  tribal 
raids,  more  often  they  arise  from  personal 
grievances,  personal  jealousies;  the  siege  of 
Troy  is  undertaken  not  because  the  Trojans 
have  raided  the  cattle  of  the  Achseans,  but 
because  a single  Trojan,  Paris,  has  carried 
off  Helen,  a single  Achaean’s  wife. 

Another  noticeable  point  is  that  in  heroic 
poems  scarcely  any  one  is  safely  and  quietly 
at  home.  The  heroes  are  fighting  in  far-off 
lands  or  voyaging  by  sea;  hence  we  hear 
little  of  tribal  and  even  of  family  ties.  The 
real  centre  is  not  the  hearth,  but  the  leader’s 
tent  or  ship.  Local  ties  that  bind  to  par- 
ticular spots  of  earth  are  cut,  local  differences 
fall  into  abeyance,  a sort  of  cosmopolitanism, 
a forecast  of  pan-Hellenism,  begins  to  arise. 
And  a curious  point — all  this  is  reflected  in 
the  gods.  We  hear  scarcely  anything  of 
local  cults,  nothing  at  all  of  local  magical 
maypoles  and  Carryings-out  of  Winter  and 
Bringings-in  of  Smnmer,  nothing  whatever 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


161 


of  “Suppers”  for  the  souls,  or  even  of  wor- 
ship paid  to  particular  local  heroes.  A man’s 
ghost  when  he  dies  does  not  abide  in  its  grave 
ready  to  rise  at  springtime  and  help  the  seeds 
to  sprout;  it  goes  to  a remote  and  shadowy 
region,  a common,  pan-Hellenic  Hades.  And 
so  with  the  gods  themselves;  they  are  cut 
clean  from  earth  and  from  the  local  bits  of 
earth  out  of  which  they  grew — the  sacred 
trees  and  holy  stones  and  rivers  and  still 
holier  beasts.  There  is  not  a holy  Bull  to  be 
foimd  in  all  Olympus,  only  figures  of  men, 
bright  and  vivid  and  intensely  personal,  like 
so  many  glorified,  transfigured  Homeric  he- 
roes. 

In  a word,  the  heroic  spirit,  as  seen  in 
heroic  poetry,  is  the  outcome  of  a society  cut 
loose  from  its  roots,  of  a time  of  migrations, 
of  the  shifting  of  populations.^  But  more  is 
needed,  and  just  this  something  more  the 
age  that  gave  birth  to  Homer  had.  We  know 
now  that  before  the  northern  people  whom 
we  call  Greeks,  and  who  called  themselves 
Hellenes,  came  down  into  Greece,  there  had 
grown  up  in  the  basin  of  the  .^gean  a civiliza- 
tion splendid,  wealthy,  rich  in  art  and  already 

1 Thanks  to  Mr.  H.  M.  Chadwick’s  Heroic  Age  (1912). 


162  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


ancient,  the  civilization  that  has  come  to 
light  at  Troy,  Mycenae,  Tiryns,  and  most  of 
all  in  Crete.  The  adventurers  from  North 
and  South  came  upon  a land  rich  in  spoils, 
where  a chieftain  with  a band  of  hardy  fol- 
lowers might  sack  a city  and  dower  himself 
and  his  men  with  sudden  wealth.  Such 
conditions,  such  a contact  of  new  and  old,  of 
settled  splendour  beset  by  unbridled  adven- 
ture, go  to  the  making  of  a heroic  age,  its 
virtues  and  its  vices,  its  obvious  beauty  and 
its  hidden  ugliness.  In  settled,  social  con- 
ditions, as  has  been  well  remarked,  “most  of 
the  heroes  would  sooner  or  later  have  found 
themselves  in  prison.” 

A heroic  age,  happily  for  society,  cannot 
last  long;  it  has  about  it  while  it  does  last 
a sheen  of  passing  and  pathetic  splendour 
such  as  that  which  lights  up  the  figure  of 
Achilles,  but  it  is  bound  to  fade  and  pass. 
A heroic  society  is  almost  a contradiction  in 
terms.  Heroism  is  for  individuals.  If  a 
society  is  to  go  on  at  all  it  must  strike  its 
roots  deep  in  some  soil,  native  or  alien.  The 
bands  of  adventurers  must  disband  and  go 
home,  or  settle  anew  on  the  land  they  have 
conquered.  They  must  beat  their  swords 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


163 


into  plowshares  and  their  spears  into  prun- 
ing-hooks.  Their  gallant,  glorious  leader 
must  become  a sober,  home-keeping,  law- 
giving  and  law-abiding  king;  his  followers 
must  abate  their  individuality  and  make  it 
subserve  a common  social  purpose. 

Athens,  in  her  sheltered  peninsula,  lay 
somewhat  outside  the  tide  of  migrations  and 
heroic  exploits.  Her  population  and  that  of 
all  Attica  remained  comparatively  unchanged; 
her  kings  are  kings  of  the  stationary,  law- 
abiding,  state-reforming  type;  Cecrops, 
Erechtheus,  Theseus,  are  not  splendid,  flash- 
ing, all-conquering  figures  like  Achilles  and 
Agamemnon.  Athens  might,  it  would  seem, 
but  for  the  commg  of  Homer,  have  lain  stag- 
nant in  a backwater  of  conservatism,  content 
to  go  on  chanting  her  traditional  Spring  Songs 
year  by  year.  It  is  a wonderful  thing  that 
this  city  of  Athens,  beloved  of  the  gods,  should 
have  been  saved  from  the  storm  and  stress, 
sheltered  from  what  might  have  broken,  even 
shattered  her,  spared  the  actual  horrors  of  a 
heroic  age,  yet  given  heroic  'poetry,  given  the 
clear  wine-cup  poured  when  the  ferment  was 
over.  She  drank  of  it  deep  and  was  glad  and 
rose  up  like  a giant  refreshed. 


164  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


We  have  seen  that  to  make  up  a heroic  age 
there  must  be  two  factors,  the  new  and  the 
old;  the  young,  vigorous,  warlike  people  must 
seize  on,  appropriate,  in  part  assimilate,  an 
old  and  wealthy  civilization.  It  almost 
seems  as  if  we  might  go  a step  farther,  and 
say  that  for  every  great  movement  in  art  or 
hterature  we  must  have  the  same  conditions, 
a contact  of  new  and  old,  of  a new  spirit 
seizing  or  appropriated  by  an  old  established 
order.  Anyhow  for  Athens  the  historical  fact 
stands  certain.  The  amazing  development 
of  the  fifth-century  drama  is  just  this,  the 
old  vessel  of  the  ritual  Dithyramb  filled  to 
the  full  with  the  new  wine  of  the  heroic  saga; 
and  it  would  seem  that  it  was  by  the  hand  of 
Peisistratos,  the  great  democratic  tyrant, 
that  the  new  wine  was  outpoured. 

Such  were  roughly  the  outside  conditions 
under  which  the  drama  of  art  grew  out  of 
the  dromena  of  ritual.  The  racial  secret  of 
the  individual  genius  of  Aeschylus  and  the 
forgotten  men  who  preceded  him  we  cannot 
hope  to  touch.  We  can  only  try  to  see  the 
conditions  in  which  they  worked  and  mark 
the  splendid  new  material  that  lay  to  their 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


165 


hands.  Above  all  things  we  can  see  that  this 
material,  these  Homeric  saga,  were  just  fitted 
to  give  the  needed  impulse  to  art.  The 
Homeric  saga  had  for  an  Athenian  poet  just 
that  remoteness  from  immediate  action  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  is  the  essence  of  art  as 
contrasted  with  ritual. 

Tradition  says  that  the  Athenians  fined 
the  dramatic  poet  Phrynichus  for  choosing 
as  the  part  of  one  of  his  tragedies  the  Taking 
of  Miletus.  Probably  the  fine  was  inflicted 
for  political  party  reasons,  and  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  question  of  whether 
the  subject  was  “artistic”  or  not.  But  the 
story  may  stand,  and  indeed  was  later  under- 
stood to  be,  a sort  of  allegory  as  to  the  atti- 
tude of  art  towards  life.  To  imderstand  and 
still  more  to  contemplate  life  you  must  come 
out  from  the  choral  dance  of  life  and  stand 
apart.  In  the  case  of  one’s  own  sorrows,  be 
they  national  or  personal,  this  is  all  but  im- 
possible. We  can  ritualize  our  sorrows,  but 
not  turn  them  into  tragedies.  We  cannot 
stand  back  far  enough  to  see  the  picture;  we 
want  to  be  doing,  or  at  least  lamenting.  In 
the  case  of  the  sorrows  of  others  this  standing 
back  is  all  too  easy.  We  not  only  bear  their 


166  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


pain  with  easy  stoicism,  but  we  picture  it 
dispassionately  at  a safe  distance;  we  feel 
about  rather  than  with  it.  The  trouble  is  that 
we  do  not  feel  enough.  Such  was  the  attitude 
of  the  Athenian  towards  the  doings  and 
sufferings  of  Homeric  heroes.  They  stood 
towards  them  as  spectators.  These  heroes 
had  not  the  intimate  sanctity  of  home-grown 
things,  but  they  had  sufficient  traditional 
sanctity  to  make  them  acceptable  as  the 
material  of  drama. 

Adequately  sacred  though  they  were,  they 
were  yet  free  and  flexible.  It  is  impiety 
to  alter  the  myth  of  your  local  hero,  it  is 
impossible  to  recast  the  myth  of  your  local 
daemon — that  is  fixed  forever — his  conflict, 
his  agon,  his  death,  his  'pathos,  his  Resurrec- 
tion and  its  heralding,  his  Epiphany.  But 
the  stories  of  Agamemnon  and  Achilles, 
though  at  home  these  heroes  were  local 
daimones,  have  already  been  variously  told 
in  their  wanderings  from  place  to  place,  and 
you  can  mould  them  more  or  less  to  your  will. 
Moreover,  these  figures  are  already  personal 
and  individual,  not  representative  puppets, 
mere  functionaries  like  the  May  Queen  and 
Winter;  they  have  life-histories  of  their  own. 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


167 


never  quite  to  be  repeated.  It  is  in  this  blend 
of  the  individual  and  the  general,  the  personal 
and  the  universal,  that  one  element  at  least 
of  all  really  great  art  will  be  found  to  lie;  V 
and  just  here  at  Athens  we  get  a glimpse  of 
the  moment  of  fusion;  we  see  a definite  his-  ^ 
torical  reason  why  and  how  the  universal  in 
dromena  came  to  include  the  particular  in 
drama.  We  see,  moreover,  how  in  place  of 
the  old  monotonous  plots,  intimately  con- 
nected with  actual  practical  needs,  we  get  ‘ 
material  cut  off  from  immediate  reactions, 
seen  as  it  were  at  the  right  distance,  remote  yet 
not  too  remote.  We  see,  in  a word,  how  a 
ritual  enacted  year  by  year  became  a work  of 
art  that  was  a “possession  for  ever.” 

Possibly  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  there 
may  have  been  for  some  time  a growing 
discomfort,  an  inarticulate  protest.  All  this 
about  dromena  and  drama  and  dithyrambs, 
bears  and  bulls.  May  Queens,  and  Tree-Spirits, 
even  about  Homeric  heroes,  is  all  very  well, 
curious  and  perhaps  even  in  a way  interesting, 
but  it  is  not  at  all  what  he  expected,  still  less 
what  he  wants.  When  he  bought  a book 
with  the  odd  incongruous  title.  Ancient  Art 


168  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


and  Ritual,  he  was  prepared  to  put  up  with 
some  remarks  on  the  artistic  side  of  ritual, 
but  he  did  expect  to  be  told  something  about 
what  the  ordinary  man  calls  art,  that  is, 
statues  and  pictures.  Greek  drama  is  no 
doubt  a form  of  ancient  art,  but  acting  is  not 
to  the  reader’s  mind  the  chief  of  arts.  Nay, 
more,  he  has  heard  doubts  raised  lately — and 
he  shares  them — as  to  whether  acting  and 
dancing,  about  which  so  much  has  been  said, 
are  properly  speaking  arts  at  all.  Now  about 
painting  and  sculpture  there  is  no  doubt. 
Let  us  come  to  business. 

To  a business  so  beautiful  and  pleasant  as 
Greek  sculpture  we  shall  gladly  come,  but  a 
word  must  first  be  said  to  explain  the  reason  - 
of  our  long  delay.  The  main  contention  of 
the  present  book  is  that  ritual  and  art  have, 
in  emotion  towards  life,  a common  root,  and 
further,  that  primitive  art  develops  normally, 
at  least  in  the  case  of  the  drama,  straight  out 
of  ritual.  The  nature  of  that  primitive  ritual 
from  which  the  drama  arose  is  not  very  fami- 
liar to  English  readers.  It  has  been  necessary 
to  stress  its  characteristics.  Almost  every- 
where, all  over  the  world,  it  is  found  that 
primitive  ritual  consists,  not  in  prayer  and 


FROM  RITUAL  TO  ART 


169 


praise  and  sacrifice,  but  in  mimetic  dancing. 
But  it  is  in  Greece,  and  perhaps  Greece  only, 
in  the  religion  of  Dionysos,  that  we  can 
actually  trace,  if  dimly,  the  transition  steps 
that  led  from  dance  to  drama,  from  ritual  to 
art.  It  was,  therefore,  of  the  first  importance 
to  realize  the  nature  of  the  dithyramb  from 
which  the  drama  rose,  and  so  far  as  might  be 
to  mark  the  cause  and  circumstances  of  the 
transition. 

Leaving  the  drama,  we  come  in  the  next 
chapter  to  Sculpture;  and  here,  too,  we  shall 
see  how  closely  art  was  shadowed  by  that 
ritual  out  of  which  she  sprang. 


CHAPTER  VI 


GREEK  sculpture:  THE  PANATHENAIC 
FRIEZE  AND  THE  APOLLO  BELVEDERE 

In  passing  from  the  drama  to  Sculpture  we 
make  a great  leap.  We  pass  from  the  living 
thing,  the  dance  or  the  play  acted  by  real 
people,  the  thing  done,  whether  as  ritual  or 
art,  whether  dromenon  or  drama,  to  the  thing 
made,  cast  in  outside  material  rigid  form,  a 
thing  that  can  be  looked  at  again  and  again, 
but  the  making  of  which  can  never  actually 
be  re-lived  whether  by  artist  or  spectator. 

Moreover,  we  come  to  a clear  threefold  dis- 
tinction and  division  hitherto  neglected.  We 
must  at  last  sharply  differentiate  the  artist, 
the  work  of  art,  and  the  spectator.  The 
artist  may,  and  usually  indeed  does,  become 
the  spectator  of  his  own  work,  but  the  spec- 
tator is  not  the  artist.  The  work  of  art  is, 
once  executed,  forever  distinct  both  from 
artist  and  spectator.  In  the  primitive  choral 
dance  all  three — artist,  work  of  art,  spec- 
tator— were  fused,  or  rather  not  yet  differen- 

170 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


171 


tiated.  Handbooks  on  art  are  apt  to  begin 
with  the  discussion  of  rude  decorative  pat- 
terns, and  after  leading  up  through  sculpture 
and  painting,  something  vague  is  said  at  the 
end  about  the  prunitiveness  of  the  ritual 
dance.  But  historically  and  also  genetically 
or  logically  the  dance  in  its  inchoateness,  its 
undifferentiatedness,  comes  first.  It  has  in 
it  a larger  element  of  emotion,  and  less  of 
presentation.  It  is  this  inchoateness,  this 
undifferentiatedness,  that,  apart  from  his- 
torical fact,  makes  us  feel  sure  that  logically 
the  dance  is  primitive. 

To  illustrate  the  meaning  of  Greek  sculp- 
ture and  show  its  close  affinity  with  ritual,  we 
shall  take  two  instances,  perhaps  the  best- 
known  of  those  that  survive,  one  of  them  in 
relief,  the  other  in  the  round,  the  Panathenaic 
frieze  of  the  Parthenon  at  Athens  and  the 
Apollo  Belvedere,  and  we  shall  take  them  in 
chronological  order.  As  the  actual  frieze  and 
the  statue  cannot  be  before  us,  we  shall  dis- 
cuss no  technical  questions  of  style  or  treat- 
ment, but  simply  ask  how  they  came  to  be, 
what  human  need  do  they  express.  The 
Parthenon  frieze  is  in  the  British  Museum,  the 


172  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Apollo  Belvedere  is  in  the  Vatican  at  Rome, 
but  is  readily  accessible  in  casts  or  photo- 
graphs. The  outlines  given  in  Figs.  5 and  6 
can  of  course  only  serve  to  recall  subject- 
matter  and  design. 

The  Panathenaic  frieze  once  decorated  the 
cella  or  innermost  shrine  of  the  Parthenon, 
the  temple  of  the  Maiden  Goddess  Athena. 
It  twined  like  a ribbon  round  the  brow  of  the 
building  and  thence  it  was  torn  by  Lord  Elgin 
and  brought  home  to  the  British  Museum 
as  a national  trophy,  for  the  price  of  a few 
hundred  pounds  of  coffee  and  yards  of  scarlet 
cloth.  To  realize  its  meaning  we  must  al- 
ways think  it  back  into  its  place.  Inside  the 
cella,  or  shrine,  dwelt  the  goddess  herself, 
her  great  image  in  gold  and  ivory;  outside  the 
shrine  was  sculptured  her  worship  by  the 
whole  of  her  people.  For  the  frieze  is  nothing 
but  a great  ritual  procession  translated  into 
stone,  the  Panathenaic  procession,  or  pro- 
cession of  all  the  Athenians,  of  all  Athens,  in 
honour  of  the  goddess  who  was  but  the  city 
incarnate,  Athena. 

“A  wonder  enthroned  on  the  hills  and  the  sea, 
A maiden  crowned  with  a fourfold  glory, 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


173 


That  none  from  the  pride  of  her  head  may 
rend; 

Violet  and  olive  leaf,  purple  and  hoary. 
Song-wreath  and  story  the  fairest  of  fame, 
Flowers  that  the  winter  can  blast  not  nor 
bend, 

A light  upon  earth  as  the  sun’s  own  flame, 
A name  as  his  name — 

Athens,  a praise  without  end.” 

Swinburne:  Erechtheus,  141. 

Sculptural  Art,  at  least  in  this  instance, 
comes  out  of  ritual,  has  ritual  as  its  subject, 
is  embodied  ritual.  The  reader  perhaps  at 
this  point  may  suspect  that  he  is  being  juggled 
with,  that,  out  of  the  thousands  of  Greek 
rehefs  that  remain  to  us,  just  this  one  instance 
has  been  selected  to  bolster  up  the  writer’s 
art  and  ritual  theory.  He  has  only  to  walk 
through  any  museum  to  be  convinced  at  once 
that  the  author  is  playing  quite  fair.  Practi- 
cally the  whole  of  the  reliefs  that  remain  to 
us  from  the  archaic  period,  and  a very  large 
proportion  of  those  at  later  date,  when  they 
do  not  represent  heroic  mythology,  are  ritual 
rehefs,  “votive”  reliefs  as  we  call  them;  that 
is,  prayers  or  praises  translated  into  stone. 


174  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Of  the  choral  dance  we  have  heard  much,  i 
of  the  procession  but  little,  yet  its  ritual  I 
importance  was  great.  In  religion  to-day  | 
the  dance  is  dead  save  for  the  dance  of  the 
choristers  before  the  altar  at  Seville.  But  the  | 
procession  lives  on,  has  even  taken  to  itself  ] 


E 

Preseatatlog  of  the.  Peb?o3  . 


PaTiZLtk.enaic.  Procession. 


Fig.  3. 

new  life.  It  is  a means  of  bringing  masses 
of  people  together,  of  ordering  them  and 
co-ordinating  them.  It  is  a means  for  the 
magical  spread  of  supposed  good  influence, 
of  “grace.”  Witness  the  “Beating  of  the 
Bounds”  and  the  frequent  processions  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  in  Roman  Catholic  lands. 
The  Queen  of  the  May  and  the  Jack-in-the- 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


175 


Green  still  go  from  house  to  house.  Now-a- 
days  it  is  to  collect  pence;  once  it  was  to 
diffuse  “grace”  and  increase.  We  remember 


the  procession  of  the  holy  Bull  at  Magnesia 
and  the  holy  Bear  at  Saghalien  (pp.  92-100). 

What,  then,  was  the  object  of  the  Pan- 
athenaic  procession  It  was  first,  as  its  name 


176  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


indicates,  a procession  that  brought  all  Athens 
together.  Its  object  was  social  and  political, 
to  express  the  unity  of  Athens.  Ritual  in 
primitive  times  is  always  social,  collective. 

The  arrangement  of  the  procession  is  shown 
in  Figs.  3 and  4 (pp.  174,  175).  In  Fig.  3 we 
see  the  procession  as  it  were  in  real  life,  just 
as  it  is  about  to  enter  the  temple  and  the 
presence  of  the  Twelve  Gods.  These  gods 
are  shaded  black  because  in  reality  invisible. 
Fig.  4 is  a diagram  showing  the  position  of  the 
various  parts  of  the  procession  in  the  sculp- 
tural frieze.  At  the  west  end  of  the  temple 
the  procession  begins  to  form:  the  youths  of 
Athens  are  mounting  their  horses.  It  divides, 
as  it  needs  must,  into  two  halves,  one  sculp- 
tured on  the  north,  one  on  the  south  side 
of  the  cella.  After  the  throng  of  the  cavalry 
getting  denser  and  denser  we  come  to  the 
chariots,  next  the  sacrificial  animals,  sheep 
and  restive  cows,  then  the  instruments  of 
sacrifice,  flutes  and  lyres  and  baskets  and 
trays  for  offerings;  men  who  carry  blossoming 
olive-boughs;  maidens  with  water- vessels 
and  drinking-cups.  The  whole  tumult  of  the 
gathering  is  marshalled  and  at  last  met  and, 
as  it  were,  held  in  check,  by  a band  of  magis- 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


177 


trates  who  face  the  procession  just  as  it  en- 
ters the  presence  of  the  twelve  seated  gods, 
at  the  east  end.  The  whole  body  politic  of 
the  gods  has  come  down  to  feast  with  the 
whole  body  politic  of  Athens  and  her  allies, 
of  whom  these  gods  are  but  the  projection 
and  reflection.  The  gods  are  there  together 
because  man  is  collectively  assembled. 

The  great  procession  culminates  in  a sacri- 
fice and  a communal  feast,  a sacramental 
feast  like  that  on  the  flesh  of  the  holy  Bull  at 
Magnesia.  The  Panathenaia  was  a high 
festival  including  rites  and  ceremonies  of 
diverse  dates,  an  armed  dance  of  immemorial 
antiquity  that  may  have  dated  from  the 
days  when  Athens  was  subject  to  Crete,  and  a 
recitation  ordered  by  Peisistratos  of  the 
poems  of  Homer. 

Some  theorists  have  seen  in  art  only  an 
extension  of  the  “play  instinct,”  just  a hb- 
eration  of  superfluous  vitality  and  energies,  as 
it  were  a rehearsing  for  life.  This  is  not  our 
view,  but  into  all  art,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a cutting 
off  of  motor  reactions,  there  certainly  enters 
an  element  of  recreation.  It  is  interesting 
to  note  that  to  the  Greek  mind  religion  was 


178  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


specially  connected  with  the  notion  rather 
of  a festival  than  a fast.  Thucydides^  is 
assuredly  by  nature  no  reveller,  yet  religion 
is  to  him  mainly  a “rest  from  toil.”  He 
makes  Perikles  say:  “Moreover,  we  have 
provided  for  our  spirit  by  many  opportunities 
of  recreation,  by  the  celebration  of  games 
and  sacrifices  throughout  the  year.”  To 
the  anonymous  writer  known  as  the  “Old 
Oligarch”  the  main  gist  of  religion  appears 
to  be  a decorous  social  enjoyment.  In 
easy  aristocratic  fashion  he  rejoices  that 
religious  ceremonials  exist  to  provide  for  the 
less  well-to-do  citizens  suitable  amusements 
that  they  would  otherwise  lack.  “As  to 
sacrifices  and  sanctuaries  and  festivals  and 
precincts,  the  People,  knowing  that  it  is  im- 
possible for  each  man  individually  to  sacrifice 
and  feast  and  have  sacrifices  and  an  ample 
and  beautiful  city,  has  discovered  by  what 
means  he  may  enjoy  these  privileges.” 

In  the  'proc^sio^  of  the  Panathenaia  all 
Athens  was  gathered  together,  but — and  this 
is  important — for  a special  purpose,  more 
primitive  than  any  great  political  or  social 
1 II,  38. 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


179 


union.  Happily  this  purpose  is  clear;  it  is 
depicted  m the  central  slab  of  the  east  end  of 
the  frieze  (Fig.  5).  A priest  is  there  repre- 
sented receivuig  from  the  hands  of  a boy  a 
great  peplos  or  robe.  It  is  the  sacred  robe  of 
Athena  woven  for  her  and  embroidered  by 
young  Athenian  maidens  and  offered  to  her 


Fig.  5. 


statue  in  the  Parthenon  itself  had  no  need  of 
a robe;  she  would  scarcely  have  known  what 
to  do  with  one;  her  raiment  was  already  of 
wrought  gold,  she  carried  helmet  and  spear 
and  shield.  But  there  was  an  ancient  image 
of  Athena,  an  old  Madonna  of  the  people, 
fashioned  before  Athena  became  a warrior 
maiden.  This  image  was  rudely  hewn  in 
wood,  it  was  dressed  and  decked  doll-fashion 
like  a May  Queen,  and  to  her  the  great  peplos 


180  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


was  dedicated.  The  peplos  was  hoisted  as  a 
sail  on  the  Panathenaic  ship,  and  this  ship 
Athena  had  borrowed  from  Dionysos  himself, 
who  went  every  spring  in  procession  in  a ship- 
car  on  wheels  to  open  the  season  for  sailing. 
To  a seafaring  people  like  the  Athenians  the 
opening  of  the  sailing  season  was  all-impor- 
tant, and  naturally  began  not  at  midsummer 
but  in  spring. 

The  sacred  peplos,  or  robe,  takes  us  back 
to  the  old  days  when  the  spirit  of  the  year 
and  the  “luck”  of  the  people  was  bound  up 
with  a rude  image.  The  life  of  the  year  died 
out  each  year  and  had  to  be  renewed.  To 
make  a new  image  was  expensive  and  incon- 
venient, so,  with  primitive  economy  it  was 
decided  that  the  life  and  luck  of  the  image 
should  be  renewed  by  re-dressing  it,  by 
offering  to  it  each  year  a new  robe.  We 
remember  (p.  60)  how  in  Thuringia  the  new 
puppet  wore  the  shirt  of  the  old  and  thereby 
new  life  was  passed  from  one  to  the  other. 
But  behind  the  old  image  we  can  get  to  a 
stage  still  earlier,  when  there  was  at  the 
Panathenaia  no  image  at  all,  only  a yearly 
maypole;  a bough  hung  with  ribbons  and 
cakes  and  fruits  and  the  like.  A bough  was 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


181 


cut  from  the  sacred  olive  tree  of  Athens,  called 
the  Moria  or  Fate  Tree.  It  was  bound 
about  with  fillets  and  hung  with  fruit  and 
nuts  and,  in  the  festival  of  the  Panathenaia 
they  carried  it  up  to  the  Acropolis  to  give  to 
Athena  Polios,  “Her-of-the-City,”  and  as 
they  went  they  sang  the  old  Eiresione  song 
(p.  114).  Polios  is  but  the  city,  the  Polis 
incarnate. 

This  Moria,  or  Fate  Tree,  was  the  very 
life  of  Athens;  the  life  of  the  olive  which 
fed  her  and  lighted  her  was  the  very  life  of 
ifhe  city.  When  the  Persian  host  sacked  the 
Acropolis  they  burnt  the  holy  olive,  and  it 
seemed  that  all  was  over.  But  next  day  it 
put  forth  a new  shoot  and  the  people  knew 
that  the  city’s  life  still  lived.  Sophocles^ 
sang  of  the  glory  of  the  wondrous  life  tree 
of  Athens. 

“The  untended,  the  self -planted,  self -de- 
fended from  the  foe. 

Sea-gray,  children-nurturing  olive  tree  that 
here  delights  to  grow. 

None  may  take  nor  touch  nor  harm  it, 
headstrong  youth  nor  age  grown  bold. 

^ Oed.  Col.  694,  trans.  D.  S.  MacCoU. 


182  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


For  the  round  of  Morian  Zeus  has  been  its 
watcher  from  of  old; 

He  beholds  it,  and,  Athene,  thy  own  sea- 
gray  eyes  behold.” 

The  holy  tree  carried  in  procession  is,  like 
the  image  of  Athena,  made  of  olive-wood, 
just  the  incarnate  life  of  Athens  ever  re- 
newed. 

The  Panathenaia  was  not,  like  the  Dithy- 
ramb, a spring  festival.  It  took  place  in 
July  at  the  height  of  the  smnmer  heat,  when 
need  for  rain  was  the  greatest.  But  the 
month  Hecatombaion,  in  which  it  was  cele- 
brated, was  the  first  month  of  the  Athenian 
year  and  the  day  of  the  festival  was  the 
birthday  of  the  goddess.  When  the  goddess 
became  a war-goddess,  it  was  fabled  that 
she  was  born  in  Olympus,  and  that  she  sprang 
full  grown  from  her  father’s  head  in  glittering 
armour.  But  she  was  really  born  on  earth, 
and  the  day  of  her  birth  was  the  birthday 
of  every  earthbom  goddess,  the  day  of  the 
beginning  of  the  new  year,  with  its  returning 
life.  When  men  only  observe  the  actual 
growth  of  new  green  life  from  the  ground, 
this  birthday  will  be  in  spring;  when  they 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


183 


begin  to  know  that  the  seasons  depend  on 
the  sun,  or  when  the  heat  of  the  sun  causes 
great  need  of  rain,  it  will  be  at  midsummer, 
at  the  solstice,  or  in  northern  regions  where 
men  fear  to  lose  the  sun  in  midwinter,  as 
with  us.  The  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  is, 
then,  but  a primitive  festival  translated  into 
stone,  a rite  frozen  to  a monument. 

Passing  over  a long  space  of  time  we  come 
to  our  next  illustration,  the  Apollo  Belvedere 
(Fig.  6). 

It  might  seem  that  here  at  last  we  have 
nothing  primitive;  here  we  have  art  pure 
and  simple,  ideal  art  utterly  cut  loose  from 
ritual,  “art  for  art’s  sake.”  Yet  in  this 
Apollo  Belvedere,  this  product  of  late  and 
accomplished,  even  decadent  art,  we  shall 
see  most  clearly  the  intimate  relation  of  art 
and  ritual;  we  shall,  as  it  were,  walk  actually 
across  that  transition  bridge  of  ritual  which 
leads  from  actual  life  to  art. 

The  date  of  this  famous  Apollo  cannot 
be  fixed,  but  it  is  clearly  a copy  of  a type 
belonging  to  the  fourth  century  b.c.  The 
poise  of  the  figure  is  singular  and,  till  its  in- 
tent is  grasped,  unsatisfactory.  Apollo  is 


The  Apollo  Belvedere. 

Fig.  6. 


184 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


185 


caught  in  swift  motion,  but  seems,  as  he  stands 
delicately  poised,  to  be  about  to  fly  rather 
than  to  run.  He  stands  tiptoe  and  in  a 
moment  wiU  have  left  the  earth.  The 
Greek  sculptor’s  genius  was  all  focussed,  as 
we  shall  presently  see,  on  the  human  figure 
and  on  the  mastery  of  its  many  possibilities 
of  movement  and  action.  Greek  statues  can 
roughly  be  dated  by  the  way  they  stand. 
At  first,  in  the  archaic  period,  they  stand 
firmly  planted  with  equal  weight  on  either 
foot,  the  feet  close  together.  Then  one  foot 
is  advanced,  but  the  weight  still  equally 
divided,  an  almost  impossible  position.  Next, 
the  weight  is  thrown  on  the  right  foot;  and 
the  left  knee  is  bent.  This  is  of  all  posi- 
tions the  loveliest  for  the  human  body.  We 
allow  it  to  women,  forbid  it  to  men  save  to 
“aesthetes.”  If  the  back  numbers  of  Punch 
be  examined  for  the  figure  of  “Postlethwaite” 
it  will  be  seen  that  he  always  stands  in  this 
characteristic  relaxed  pose. 

When  the  sculptor  has  mastered  the  possi- 
ble he  bethinks  him  of  the  impossible.  He 
will  render  the  hmnan  body  flying.  It  may 
have  been  the  accident  of  a mythological 
subject  that  first  suggested  the  motive. 


186  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Leochares,  a famous  artist  of  the  fourth  cen- 
tury B.C.,  made  a group  of  Zeus  in  the  form 
of  an  eagle  carrying  off  Ganymede.  A replica 
of  the  group  is  preserved  in  the  Vatican,  and 
should  stand  for  comparison  near  the  Apollo. 
We  have  the  same  tiptoe  poise,  the  figure 
just  about  to  leave  the  earth.  Again,  it  is 
not  a dance,  but  a flight.  This  poise  is  sug- 
gestive to  us  because  it  marks  an  art  cut 
loose,  as  far  as  may  be,  from  earth  and  its 
realities,  even  its  rituals. 

What  is  it  that  Apollo  is  doing.?  The 
question  and  suggested  answers  have  occu- 
pied many  treatises.  There  is  only  one  an- 
swer: We  do  not  know.  It  was  at  fiirst 
thought  that  the  Apollo  had  just  drawn  his 
bow  and  shot  an  arrow.  This  suggestion  was 
made  to  account  for  the  pose;  but  that,  as 
we  have  seen,  is  sufficiently  explained  by  the 
flight-motive.  Another  possible  solution  is 
that  Apollo  brandishes  in  his  uplifted  hand 
the  aegis,  or  goatskin  shield,  of  Zeus.  An- 
other suggestion  is  that  he  holds  as  often  a 
lustral,  or  laurel  bough,  that  he  is  figured  as 
Daphnephoros,  “Laurel-Bearer.” 

We  do  not  know  if  the  Belvedere  Apollo 
carried  a laurel,  but  we  do  know  that  it  was 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


187 


of  the  very  essence  of  the  god  to  be  a Laurel- 
Bearer.  That,  as  we  shall  see  in  a moment, 
he,  Hke  Dionysos,  arose  in  part  out  of  a rite, 
a rite  of  Laurel-Bearing — a Daphnephoria. 
We  have  not  got  clear  of  ritual  yet.  When 
Pausanias,^  the  ancient  traveller,  whose  note- 
book is  our  chief  source  about  these  early 
festivals,  came  to  Thebes  he  saw  a hill  sacred 
to  Apollo,  and  after  describing  the  temple  on 
the  hill  he  says: 

“The  following  custom  is  still,  I know, 
observed  at  Thebes.  A boy  of  distinguished 
family  and  himself  well-looking  and  strong  is 
made  the  priest  of  Apollo,  for  the  space  of  a 
year.  The  title  given  him  is  Laurel-Bearer 
(Daphnephoros),  for  these  boys  wear  wreaths 
made  of  laurel.” 

We  know  for  certain  now  what  these  yearly 
priests  are:  they  are  the  Kings  of  the  Year, 
the  Spirits  of  the  Year,  May-Kings,  Jacks-o’- 
the-Green.  The  name  given  to  the  boy  is 
enough  to  show  he  carried  a laurel  branch, 
though  Pausanias  only  mentions  a wreath. 
Another  ancient  writer  gives  us  more  details.^ 
He  says  in  describing  the  festival  of  the 
Laurel-Bearing : 

1 IX.  10, 4. 


® See  my  Themis,  p.  438. 


188  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


“They  wreathe  a pole  of  olive  wood  with 
laurel  and  various  flowers.  On  the  top  is 
fitted  a bronze  globe  from  which  they  suspend 
smaller  ones.  Midway  round  the  pole  they 
place  a lesser  globe,  binding  it  with  purple 
fillets,  but  the  end  of  the  pole  is  decked  with 
saffron.  By  the  topmost  globe  they  mean 
the  sun,  to  which  they  actually  compare 
Apollo.  The  globe  beneath  this  is  the  moon; 
the  smaller  globes  hung  on  are  the  stars  and 
constellations,  and  the  fillets  are  the  course 
of  the  year,  for  they  make  them  365  in  num- 
ber. The  Daphnephoria  is  headed  by  a 
boy,  both  whose  parents  are  alive,  and  his 
nearest  male  relation  carries  the  filleted  pole. 
The  Laurel-Bearer  himself,  who  follows  next, 
holds  on  to  the  laurel;  he  has  his  hair  hanging 
loose,  he  wears  a golden  wreath,  and  he  is 
dressed  out  in  a splendid  robe  to  his  feet  and 
he  wears  light  shoes.  There  follows  him  a 
band  of  maidens  holding  out  boughs  before 
them,  to  enforce  the  supplication  of  the 
hynms.” 

This  is  the  most  elaborate  maypole  cere- 
mony that  we  know  of  in  ancient  times.  The 
globes  representing  sun  and  moon  show  us 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


189 


that  we  have  come  to  a time  when  men  know 
that  the  fruits  of  the  earth  in  due  season 
depended  on  the  heavenly  bodies.  The  year 
with  its  365  days  is  a Sun-Year.  Once  this 
Sim- Year  established  and  we  find  that  the 
times  of  the  solstices,  midwinter  and  midsum- 
mer became  as,  or  even  more,  important  than 
the  spring  itself.  The  date  of  the  Daphnepho- 
ria  is  not  known. 

At  Delphi  itself,  the  centre  of  Apollo-wor- 
ship,  there  was  a festival  called  the  Stepteria, 
or  festival  “of  those  who  make  the  wreathes,” 
in  which  “mystery”  a Christian  Bishop,  St. 
Cyprian,  tells  us  he  was  initiated.  In  far-off 
Tempe — that  wonderful  valley  that  is  still 
the  greenest  spot  in  stony,  barren  Greece, 
and  where  the  laurel  trees  still  cluster — 
there  was  an  altar,  and  near  it  a laurel  tree. 
The  story  went  that  Apollo  had  made  him- 
self a crown  from  this  very  laurel,  and  taking 
in  his  hand  a branch  of  this  same  laurel,  i.  e.  as 
Laurel-Bearer,  had  come  to  Delphi  and  taken 
over  the  oracle. 

“And  to  this  day  the  people  of  Delphi 
send  high-born  boys  in  procession  there. 
And  they,  when  they  have  reached  Tempe 
and  made  a splendid  sacrifice  return  back. 


190  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


after  wearing  themselves  wreaths  from  the 
very  laurel  from  which  the  god  made  himself 
a wreath.” 

We  are  inclined  to  think  of  the  Greeks  as 
a people  apt  to  indulge  in  the  singular  prac- 
tice of  wearing  wreaths  in  public,  a practice 
among  us  confined  to  children  on  their 
birthdays  and  a few  eccentric  people  on  their 
wedding  days.  We  forget  the  intensely 
practical  purport  of  the  custom.  The  ancient 
Greeks  wore  wreaths  and  carried  boughs,  not 
because  they  were  artistic  or  poetical,  but 
because  they  were  ritualists,  that  they  might 
bring  back  the  spring  and  carry  in  the  sum- 
mer. The  Greek  bridegroom  to-day,  as  well 
as  the  Greek  bride,  wears  a wreath,  that  his 
marriage  may  be  the  beginning  of  new  life, 
that  his  “wife  may  be  as  the  fruitful  vine, 
and  his  children  as  the  olive  branches  round 
about  his  table.”  And  our  children  to-day, 
though  they  do  not  know  it,  wear  wreaths  on 
their  birthdays  because  with  each  new  year 
their  life  is  re-born. 

Apollo  then,  was,  like  Dionysos,  King  of 
the  May  and — saving  his  presence — ^Jack-in- 
the-Green.  The  god  manifestly  arose  out  of 


GREEK  SCUPLTURE 


191 


the  rite.  For  a moment  let  us  see  how  he 
arose.  It  will  be  remembered  that  in  a pre- 
vious chapter  (p.  70)  we  spoke  of  “personi- 
fication.” We  think  of  the  god  Apollo  as 
an  abstraction,  an  unreal  thing,  perhaps  as 
a “false  god.”  The  god  Apollo  does  not,  and 
never  did,  exist.  He  is  an  idea — a thiug 
made  by  the  imagination.  But  primitive 
man  does  not  deal  with  abstractions,  does  not 
worship  them.  What  happens  is,  as  we  saw 
(p.  71),  something  like  this:  Year  by  year  a 
boy  is  chosen  to  carry  the  laurel,  to  bring  in 
the  May,  and  later  year  by  year  a puppet  is 
made.  It  is  a different  boy  each  year,  carry- 
ing a different  laurel  branch.  And  yet  in  a 
sense  it  is  the  same  boy;  he  is  always  the 
Laurel-Bearer — “Daphnephoros,”  always  the 
“Luck”  of  the  village  or  city.  This  Laurel- 
Bearer,  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for- 
ever, is  the  stuff  of  which  the  god  is  made. 
The  god  arises  from  the  rite,  he  is  gradually 
detached  from  the  rite,  and  as  soon  as  he  gets 
a life  and  being  of  his  own,  apart  from  the  rite, 
he  is  a first  stage  in  art,  a work  of  art  existing 
in  the  mind,  gradually  detached  from  even 
the  faded  action  of  ritual,  and  later  to  be  the 
model  of  the  actual  work  of  art,  the  copy  in 
stone. 


192  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


The  stages,  it  would  seem,  are:  actual  life 
with  its  motor  reactions,  the  ritual  copy  of 
life  with  its  faded  reactions,  the  image  of  the 
god  projected  by  the  rite,  and,  last,  the  copy 
of  that  image,  the  work  of  art. 

We  see  now  why  in  the  history  of  all  ages 
and  every  place  art  is  what  is  called  the 
“handmaid  of  religion.”  She  is  not  really  the 
“handmaid”  at  all.  She  springs  straight 
out  of  the  rite,  and  her  first  outward  leap  is 
the  image  of  the  god.  Primitive  art  in  Greece, 
in  Egypt,  in  Assyria,^  represents  either  rites, 
processions,  sacrifices,  magical  ceremonies, 
embodied  prayers;  or  else  it  represents 
the  images  of  the  gods  who  spring  from  those 
rites.  Track  any  god  right  home,  and  you 
will  find  him  lurking  in  a ritual  sheath, 
from  which  he  slowly  emerges,  first  as  a 
daemon,  or  spirit,  of  the  year,  then  as  a full- 
blown divinity. 

1 It  is  now  held  by  some  and  good  authorities  that  the 
prehistoric  paintings  of  cave-dwelling  man  had  also  a 
ritual  origin;  that  is,  that  the  representations  of  animals 
were  intended  to  act  magically,  to  increase  the  “supply 
of  the  animal  or  help  the  himter  to  catch  him.”  But,  as 
this  question  is  still  pending,  I prefer,  tempting  though 
they  are,  not  to  use  prehistoric  paintings  as  material  for 
my  argument. 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


193 


In  Chapter  II  we  saw  how  the  dromenon 
gave  birth  to  the  drama,  how,  bit  by  bit,  out 
of  the  chorus  of  dancers  some  dancers  with- 
drew and  became  spectators  sitting  apart,  and 
on  the  other  hand  others  of  the  dancers  drew 
apart  on  to  the  stage  and  presented  to  the 
spectators  a spectacle,  a thing  to  be  looked 
at,  not  joined  in.  And  we  saw  how  in  this 
spectacular  mood,  this  being  cut  loose  from 
immediate  action,  lay  the  very  essence  of  the 
artist  and  the  art-lover.  Now  in  the  drama 
of  Thespis  there  was  at  first,  we  are  told,  but 
one  actor;  later  vEschylus  added  a second. 
It  is  clear  who  this  actor,  this  protagonist  or 
“first  contender”  was,  the  one  actor  with 
the  double  part,  who  was  Death  to  be  carried 
out  and  Summer  to  be  carried  in.  He  was 
the  Bough-Bearer,  the  only  possible  actor 
in  the  one-part  play  of  the  renewal  of  life 
and  the  return  of  the  year. 

The  May-King,  the  leader  of  the  choral 
dance,  gave  birth  not  only  to  the  first  actor 
of  the  drama,  but  also,  as  we  have  just  seen, 
to  the  god,  be  he  Dionysos  or  be  he  Apollo; 
and  this  figure  of  the  god  thus  imagined  out 
of  the  year-spirit  was  perhaps  more  fertile 


194  ANCIENT  AET  AND  RITUAL 


for  art  than  even  the  protagonist  of  the 
drama.  It  may  seem  strange  to  us  that  a 
god  should  rise  up  out  of  a dance  or  a pro- 
cession, because  dances  and  processions  are 
not  an  integral  part  of  our  national  life,  and 
do  not  call  up  any  very  strong  and  instant 
emotion.  The  old  instinct  lingers,  it  is  true, 
and  emerges  at  critical  moments;  when  a 
king  dies  we  form  a great  procession  to  carry 
him  to  the  grave,  but  we  do  not  dance.  We 
have  court  balls,  and  these  with  their  stately 
ordered  ceremonials  are  perhaps  the  last 
survival  of  the  genuinely  civic  dance,  but  a 
court  ball  is  not  given  at  a king’s  funeral  nor 
in  honour  of  a god. 

But  to  the  Greek  the  god  and  the  dance 
were  never  quite  sundered.  It  almost  seems 
as  if  in  the  minds  of  Greek  poets  and  philo- 
sophers there  lingered  some  dim  half-con- 
scious remembrance  that  some  of  these  gods 
at  least  actually  came  out  of  the  ritual  dance. 
Thus,  Plato,^  in  treating  of  the  importance 
of  rhythm  in  education  says:  “The  gods, 
pitying  the  toilsome  race  of  men,  have  ap- 
pointed the  sequence  of  religious  festivals  to 
give  them  times  of  rest,  and  have  given  them 
^ Laws,  653. 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


195 


the  Muses  and  Apollo,  the  Muse-Leader,  as 
fellow-revellers . ’ ’ 

“The  young  of  all  animals,”  he  goes  on  to 
say,  “cannot  keep  quiet,  either  in  body  or 
voice.  They  must  leap  and  skip  and  over- 
flow with  gamesomeness  and  sheer  joy,  and 
they  must  utter  all  sorts  of  cries.  But 
whereas  animals  have  no  perception  of 
order  or  disorder  in  their  motions,  the  gods 
who  have  been  appointed  to  men  as  our 
fellow-dancers  have  given  to  us  a sense  of 
pleasure  in  rhythm  and  harmony.  And  so 
they  move  us  and  lead  our  bands,  knitting 
us  together  with  songs  and  in  dances,  and 
these  we  call  choruses”  Nor  was  it  only 
Apollo  and  Dionysos  who  led  the  dance. 
Athena  herself  danced  the  Pyrrhic  dance. 
“Our  virgin  lady,”  says  Plato,  “delighting 
in  the  sports  of  the  dance,  thought  it  not 
meet  to  dance  with  empty  hands;  she  must 
be  clothed  in  full  armour,  and  in  this  attire 
go  through  the  dance.  And  youths  and 
maidens  should  in  every  respect  imitate  her 
example,  honouring  the  goddess,  both  with 
a view  to  the  actual  necessities  of  war  and 
to  the  festivals.” 

Plato  is  unconsciously  inverting  the  order 


196  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


of  things,  natural  happenings.  Take  the 
armed  dance.  There  is,  first,  the  “actual 
necessity  of  war.”  Men  go  to  war  armed,  to 
face  actual  dangers,  and  at  their  head  is 
a leader  in  full  armour.  That  is  real  life. 
There  is  then  the  festal  re-enactment  of  war, 
when  the  fight  is  not  actually  fought,  but 
there  is  an  imitation  of  war.  That  is  the 
ritual  stage,  the  dromenon.  Here,  too,  there 
is  a leader.  More  and  more  this  dance  be- 
comes a spectacle,  less  and  less  an  action. 
Then  from  the  periodic  dromenon,  the  ritual 
enacted  year  by  year,  emerges  an  imagined 
permanent  leader;  a daemon,  or  god — a Dio- 
nysos, an  Apollo,  an  Athena.  Finally  the 
account  of  what  actually  happens  is  thrown 
into  the  past,  into  a remote  distance,  and  we 
have  an  “aetiological”  myth — a story  told 
to  give  a cause  or  reason.  The  whole  natural 
process  is  inverted. 

And  last,  as  already  seen,  the  god,  the  first 
work  of  art,  the  thing  unseen,  imagined  out 
of  the  ritual  of  the  dance,  is  cast  back  into 
the  visible  world  and  fixed  in  space.  Can 
we  wonder  that  a classical  writer^  should 
say  “the  statues  of  the  craftsmen  of  old  times 
1 Athen.  XIV,  26.  p.  629. 


GREEK  SCULPTXJRE 


197 


are  the  relics  of  ancient  dancing.”  That  is 
just  what  they  are,  rites  caught  and  fixed 
and  frozen.  “Drawing,”  says  a modern 
critic,^  “is  at  bottom,  like  all  the  arts,  a 
kind  of  gesture,  a method  of  dancing  on 
paper.”  Sculpture,  drawing,  all  the  arts 
save  music  are  imitative;  so  was  the  dance 
from  which  they  sprang.  But  imitation  is  not 
all,  or  even  first.  “The  dance  may  be  mimet- 
ic; but  the  beauty  and  verve  of  the  perform- 
ance, not  closeness  of  the  imitation  impresses; 
and  tame  additions  of  truth  will  encumber 
and  not  convince.  The  dance  must  control 
the  pantomime.”  Art,  that  is,  gradually 
dominates  mere  ritual. 

We  come  to  another  point.  The  Greek 
gods  as  we  know  them  in  classical  sculpture 
are  always  imaged  in  human  shape.  This 
was  not  of  course  always  the  case  with 
other  nations.  We  have  seen  how  among 
savages  the  totem,  that  is,  the  emblem  of 
tribal  unity,  was  usually  an  animal  or  a plant. 
We  have  seen  how  the  emotions  of  the 
Siberian  tribe  in  Saghalien  focussed  on  a bear. 
The  savage  totem,  the  Saghalien  Bear,  is  on 

^ D.  S.  MacColl,  “A  Year  of  Post-Impressionism,” 
Nineteenth  Century,  p.  29.  (1912.) 


198  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


the  way  to  be,  but  is  not  quite,  a god;  he  is 
not  personal  enough.  The  Egyptians,  and  in 
part  the  Assyrians,  halted  half-way  and  made 
their  gods  into  monstrous  shapes,  half-animal, 
half-man,  which  have  their  own  mystical 
grandeur.  But  since  we  are  men  ourselves, 
feeling  human  emotion,  if  our  gods  are  in 
great  part  projected  emotions,  the  natural 
form  for  them  to  take  is  human  shape. 

“Art  imitates  Nature,”  says  Aristotle,  in 
a phrase  that  has  been  much  misunderstood. 
It  has  been  taken  to  mean  that  art  is  a copy 
or  reproduction  of  natural  objects.  But  by 
“Nature”  Aristotle  never  means  the  out- 
side world  of  created  things,  he  means  rather 
creative  force,  what  produces,  not  what  has 
been  produced.  We  might  almost  translate 
the  Greek  phrase,  “Art,  like  Nature,  creates 
things,”  “Art  acts  like  Nature  in  producing 
things.”  These  things  are,  first  and  fore- 
most, human  things,  human  action.  The 
drama,  with  which  Aristotle  is  so  much  con- 
cerned, invents  human  action  like  real, 
natural  action.  Dancing  “imitates  charac- 
ter, emotion,  action.”  Art  is  to  Aristotle 
almost  wholly  bound  by  the  limitations  of 
human  nature. 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


199 


This  is,  of  course,  characteristically  a Greek 
limitation.  “Man  is  the  measure  of  all 
things,”  said  the  old  Greek  sophist,  but 
modern  scienee  has  taught  us  another  lesson. 
Man  may  be  in  the  foreground,  but  the  drama 
of  man’s  life  is  acted  out  for  us  against  a 
tremendous  background  of  natural  happen- 
ings: a background  that  preceded  man  and 
will  outlast  him;  and  this  background  pro- 
foundly affects  our  imagination,  and  hence 
our  art.  We  moderns  are  in  love  with  the 
background.  Our  art  is  a landscape  art. 
The  ancient  landscape  painter  could  not, 
or  would  not,  trust  the  background  to 
tell  its  own  tale;  if  he  painted  a moim- 
tain  he  set  up  a mountain-god  to  make  it 
real;  if  he  outlined  a coast  he  set  human 
coast-nymphs  on  its  shore  to  make  clear 
the  meaning. 

Contrast  with  this  our  modern  landscape, 
from  which  bit  by  bit  the  nymph  has  been 
wholly  banished.  It  is  the  art  of  a stage, 
without  actors,  a scene  which  is  all  back- 
ground, all  suggestion.  It  is  an  art  given 
us  by  sheer  recoil  from  science,  which  has 
dwarfed  actual  human  life  almost  to  imagina- 
tive extinction. 


200  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


“Landscape,  then,  offered  to  the  modern 
imagination  a scene  empty  of  definite  actors, 
superhuman  or  human,  that  yielded  to 
reverie  without  challenge  all  that  is  in  a 
moral  without  a creed,  tension  or  ambush 
of  the  dark,  threat  of  ominous  gloom,  the 
relenting  and  tender  return  or  overwhelming 
outburst  of  light,  the  pageantry  of  clouds 
above  a world  turned  quaker,  the  monstrous 
weeds  of  trees  outside  the  town,  the  sea  that 
is  obstinately  epic  still.”  ^ 

It  was  to  this  world  of  backgrounds  that 
men  fled,  hunted  by  the  sense  of  their  own 
insignificance. 

“Minds  tlie  most  strictly  bound  in  their 
acts  by  civil  life,  in  their  fancy  by  the  shriv- 
elled look  of  destiny  under  scientific  specula- 
tion, felt  on  solitary  hill  or  shore  those  tides 
of  the  blood  stir  again  that  are  ruled  by  the 
sun  and  the  moon  and  travelled  as  if  to  tryst 
where  an  apparition  might  take  form.  Poets 
ordained  themselves  to  this  vigil,  haunters 
of  a desert  church,  prompters  of  an  elemental 
theatre,  listeners  in  solitary  places  for  intima- 
tions from  a spirit  in  hiding;  and  painters 
followed  the  impulse  of  Wordsworth.” 

1 D.  S.  MacColl,  Nineteenth  Century  Art,  p.  20.  (1902.) 


GREEK  SCULPTURE 


201 


We  can  only  see  the  strength  and  weakness 
of  Greek  sculpture,  feel  the  emotion  of 
which  it  was  the  utterance,  if  we  realize 
clearly  this  modern  spirit  of  the  background. 
All  great  modern,  and  perhaps  even  ancient, 
poets  are  touched  by  it.  Drama  itself, 
as  Nietzsche  showed,  “hankers  after  disso- 
lution into  mystery.  Shakespeare  would  oc- 
casionally knock  the  back  out  of  the  stage 
with  a window  opening  on  the  ‘cloud- 
capp’d  towers.’  ” But  Maeterhnck  is  the  best 
example,  because  his  genius  is  less.  He  is 
the  embodiment,  almost  the  caricature,  of 
a tendency. 

“Maeterlinck  sets  us  figures  in  the  fore- 
ground only  to  launch  us  into  that  limbus. 
The  supers  jabberiug  on  the  scene  are  there, 
children  of  presentiment  and  fear,  to  make  us 
aware  of  a third,  the  mysterious  one,  whose 
name  is  not  on  the  bills.  They  come  to 
warn  us  by  the  nervous  check  and  hurry  of 
their  gossip  of  the  approach  of  that  back- 
ground power.  Omen  after  omen  announces 
him,  the  talk  starts  and  drops  at  his  ap- 
proach, a door  shuts  and  the  thrill  of  his 
passage  is  the  play.”  ^ 

' D.  S.  MacColl,  op.  cit.,  p.  18. 


202  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


It  is,  perhaps,  the  temperaments  that  are 
most  allured  and  terrified  by  this  art  of  the 
bogey  and  the  background  that  most  feel 
the  need  of  and  best  appreciate  the  cahn 
and  level,  rational  dignity  of  Greek  natural- 
ism and  especially  the  naturahsm  of  Greek 
sculpture. 

For  it  is  naturalism,  not  realism,  not 
imitation.  By  all  manner  of  renunciations 
Greek  sculpture  is  what  it  is.  The  material, 
itself  marble,  is  utterly  unlike  life,  it  is 
perfectly  cold  and  still,  it  has  neither  the 
texture  nor  the  colouring  of  life.  The  story 
of  Pygmalion  who  fell  in  love  with  the  statue 
he  had  himself  sculptured  is  as  false  as  it  is 
tasteless.  Greek  sculpture  is  the  last  form 
of  art  to  incite  physical  reaction.  It  is 
remote  almost  to  the  point  of  chill  abstrac- 
tion. The  statue  in  the  round  renounces 
not  only  human  life  itself,  but  all  the  natural 
background  and  setting  of  life.  The  slatues 
of  the  Greek  gods  are  Olympian  in  spirit  as 
well  as  subject.  They  are  like  the  gods  of 
Epicurus,  cut  loose  alike  from  the  affairs 
of  men,  and  even  the  ordered  ways  of  Nature. 
So  Lucretius  ^ pictures  them : 

1 II,  18. 


GEEEK  SCULPTURE 


203 


“The  divinity  of  the  gods  is  revealed  and 
their  tranquil  abodes,  which  neither  winds 
do  shake  nor  clouds  drench  with  rains,  nor 
snow  congealed  by  sharp  frost  harms  with 
hoary  fall;  an  ever  cloudless  ether  o’er- 
canopies  them,  and  they  laugh  with  light 
shed  largely  around.  Nature,  too,  supplies 
all  their  wants,  and  nothing  ever  impairs 
their  peace  of  mind.” 

Greek  art  moves  on  through  a long  course 
of  technical  accomphshment,  of  ever-in- 
creasing mastery  over  materials  and  methods. 
But  this  course  we  need  not  follow.  For 
our  argument  the  last  word  is  said  in  the 
figimes  of  these  Olympians  translated  into 
stone.  Born  of  pressing  human  needs  and 
desires,  images  projected  by  active  and  even 
anxious  ritual,  they  pass  into  the  upper  air 
and  dwell  aloof,  spectator-hke  and  all  but 
spectral. 


CHAPTER  VII 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 

In  the  preceding  chapters  we  have  seen 
ritual  emerge  from  the  practical  doings  of 
life.  We  have  noted  that  in  ritual  we  have 
the  beginning  of  a detachment  from  practical 
ends;  we  have  watched  the  merely  emo- 
tional dance  develop  from  an  undifferen- 
tiated chorus  into  a spectacle  performed 
by  actors  and  watched  by  spectators,  a 
spectacle  cut  off,  not  only  from  real  life, 
but  also  from  ritual  issues;  a spectacle,  in  a 
word,  that  has  become  an  end  in  itself.  We 
have  further  seen  that  the  choral  dance  is 
an  undifferentiated  whole  which  later  divides 
out  into  three  clearly  articulate  parts,  the 
artist,  the  work  of  art,  the  spectator  or  art 
lover.  We  are  now  in  a position  to  ask 
what  is  the  good  of  all  this  antiquarian 
enquiry?  Why  is  it,  apart  from  the  mere 
delight  of  scientific  enquiry,  important  to 
have  seen  that  art  arose  from  ritual? 

204 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


205 


The  answer  is  simple — 

The  object  of  this  book,  as  stated  in  the 
preface,  is  to  try  and  throw  some  light  on 
the  function  of  art,  that  is  on  what  it  has 
done,  and  still  does  to-day,  for  life.  Now 
in  the  case  of  a complex  growth  like  art,  it 
is  rarely  if  ever  possible  to  understand  its 
function — what  it  does,  how  it  works — un- 
less we  know  something  of  how  that  growth 
began,  or,  if  its  origin  is  hid,  at  least  of  the 
simpler  forms  of  activity  that  preceded  it. 
For  art,  this  earher  stage,  this  simpler  form, 
which  is  indeed  itself  as  it  were  an  embryo 
and  rudimentary  art,  we  found  to  be — 
ritual. 

Ritual,  then,  has  not  been  studied  for  its 
own  sake,  still  less  for  its  connection  with 
any  particular  dogma,  though,  as  a subject 
of  singular  gravity  and  beauty,  ritual  is 
well  worth  a lifetime’s  study.  It  has  been 
studied  because  ritual  is,  we  believe,  a fre- 
quent and  perhaps  universal  transition  stage 
between  actual  life  and  that  peculiar  con- 
templation of  or  emotion  towards  life  which 
we  call  art.  All  our  long  examination  of 
beast-dances.  May-day  festivals  and  even 
of  Greek  drama  has  had  just  this  for  its 


206  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


object — to  make  clear  that  art — save  per- 
haps in  a few  specially  gifted  natures — 
did  not  arise  straight  out  of  hfe,  but  out 
''  of  that  collective  emphasis  of  the  needs  and 
^ desires  of  life  which  we  have  agreed  to  call 
^ ritual. 

Our  formal  argument  is  now  over  and 
ritual  may  drop  out  of  the  discussion.  But 
we  would  guard  against  a possible  misun- 
derstanding. We  would  not  be  taken  to 
imply  that  ritual  is  obsolete  and  must  drop 
out  of  life,  giving  place  to  the  art  it  has 
engendered.  It  may  well  be  that,  for  cer- 
tain temperaments,  ritual  is  a perennial 
need.  Natures  specially  gifted  can  live 
lives  that  are  emotionally  vivid,  even  in 
the  rare  high  air  of  art  or  science;  but  many, 
perhaps  most  of  us,  breathe  more  freely  in 
the  medium,  literally  the  midway  space, 
of  some  collective  ritual.  Moreover,  for 
those  of  us  who  are  not  artists  or  original 
thinkers  the  life  of  the  imagination,  and 
even  of  the  emotions,  has  been  perhaps 
too  long  lived  at  second  hand,  received  from 
the  artist  ready  made  and  felt.  To-day, 
owing  largely  to  the  progress  of  science. 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


207 


and  a host  of  other  causes  social  and  eco- 
nomic, life  grows  daily  fuller  and  freer,  and 
every  manifestation  of  life  is  regarded  with 
a new  reverence.  With  this  fresh  outpour- 
ing of  the  spirit,  this  fuller  consciousness 
of  life,  there  comes  a need  for  first-hand 
emotion  and  expression,  and  that  expression 
is  found  for  all  classes  in  a revival  of  the 
ritual  dance.  Some  of  the  strenuous,  ex- 
citing, self-expressive  dances  of  to-day  are 
of  the  soil  and  some  exotic,  but,  based  as 
they  mostly  are  on  very  primitive  ritual, 
they  stand  as  singular  evidence  of  this  real 
recurrent  need.  Ar>t  in  these  latter  days 
goes  back  as  it  were  on  hel*  own  steps,  re- 
crossing the  ritual  bridge  back  to  life. 

It  remains  to  ask  what,  in  the  light  of 
/this  ritual  origin,  is  the  function  of  art.^ 
How  do  we  relate  it  to  other  forms  of  life, 
to  science,  to  religion,  to  morality,  to  phi- 
losophy.'^ These  are  big-sounding  questions, 
and  towards  their  solution  only  hints  here 
and  there  can  be  offered,  stray  thoughts 
that  have  grown  up  out  of  this  study  of 
ritual  origins  and  which,  because  they  have 
helped  the  writer,  are  offered,  with  no 
thought  of  dogmatism,  to  the  reader. 


208  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


We  English  are  not  supposed  to  be  an 
artistic  people,  yet  art,  in  some  form  or 
another,  bulks  large  in  the  national  life.  We 
have  theatres,  a National  Gallery,  we  have 
art-schools,  our  tradesmen  provide  for  us 
“art-furniture,”  we  even  hear,  absurdly 
enough,  or  “art-colours.”  Moreover,  all 
this  is  not  a matter  of  mere  antiquarian 
interest,  we  do  not  simply  go  and  admire 
the  beauty  of  the  past  in  museums;  a move- 
ment towards  or  about  art  is  all  alive  and 
astir  among  us.  We  have  new  develop- 
ments of  the  theatre,  problem  plays,  Rein- 
hardt productions,  Gordon  Craig  scenery, 
Russian  ballets.  We  have  new  schools  of 
painting  treading  on  each  other’s  heels 
with  breathless  rapidity:  Impressionists, 

Post-Impressionists,  Futurists.  Art — or  at 
least  the  desire  for,  the  interest  in,  art — ^is 
assuredly  not  dead. 

Moreover,  and  this  is  very  important,  we 
all  feel  about  art  a certain  obligation,  such  as 
some  of  us  feel  about  religion.  There  is  an 
“ought”  about  it.  Perhaps  we  do  not 
really  care  much  about  pictures  and  poetry 
and  music,  but  we  feel  we  “ought  to.”  In 
the  case  of  music  it  has  happily  been  at 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


209 


last  recognized  that  if  you  have  not  an 
“ear”  you  cannot  care  for  it,  but  two  gener- 
ations ago,  owing  to  the  unfortunate  cheap- 
ness and  popularity  of  keyed  instruments, 
it  was  widely  held  that  one  half  of  humanity, 
the  feminine  half,  “ought”  to  play  the 
piano.  This  “ought”  is,  of  course,  like 
most  social  “oughts,”  a very  complex  prod- 
uct, but  its  existence  is  well  worth  noting. 

It  is  worth  noting  because  it  indicates  a 
vague  feeling  that  art  has  a real  value,  that 
art  is  not  a mere  luxury,  nor  even  a rarefied 
form  of  pleasure.  No  one  feels  they  ought 
to  take  pleasure  in  beautiful  scents  or  in 
the  touch  of  velvet;  they  either  do  or  they 
don’t.  The  first  point,  then,  that  must 
be  made  clear  is  that  art  is  of  real  value 
to  life  in  a perfectly  clear  biological  sense; 
it  invigorates,  enhances,  promotes  actual, 
spiritual,  and  through  it  physical  life. 

This  from  our  historical  account  we  should 
at  the  outset  expect,  because  we  have  seen 
art,  by  way  of  ritual,  arose  out  of  life.  And 
yet  the  statement  is  a sort  of  paradox,  for 
we  have  seen  also  that  art  differs  from  ritual 
just  in  this,  that  in  art,  whether  of  the 
spectator  or  the  creator,  the  “motor  re- 


210  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


actions,”  i.e.  practical  life,  the  life  of  doing, 
is  for  the  time  checked.  This  is  of  the 
essence  of  the  artist’s  vision,  that  he  sees 
things  detached  and  therefore  more  vividly, 
more  completely,  and  in  a different  light. 
This  is  of  the  essence  of  the  artist’s  emo- 
tion, that  it  is  purified  from  personal  de- 
sire. 

But,  though  the  artist’s  vision  and  emo- 
tion alike  are  modified,  purified,  they  are 
not  devitalized.  Far  from  that,  by  detach- 
ment from  action  they  are  focussed  and 
intensified.  Life  is  enhanced,  only  it  is 
a different  kind  of  life,  it  is  the  life  of  the 
image- world,  of  the  magrination;  it  is  the 
spiritual  and  human  life,  as  differentiated 
from  the  life  we  share  with  animals.  It  is 
a life  we  all,  as  human  beings,  possess  in 
some,  but  very  varying,  degrees;  and  the 
natural  man  will  always  view  the  spiritual 
man  askance,  because  he  is  not  “practical.” 
But  the  life  of  imagination,  cut  off  from 
practical  reaction  as  it  is,  becomes  in  turn 
a motor-force  causing  new  emotions,  and 
so  pervading  the  general  life,  and  thus 
ultimately  becoming  “practical.”  No  one 
function  is  completely  cut  off  from  another. 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


211 


The  main  function  of  art  is  probably  to 
intensify  and  purify  emotion,  but  it  is  sub- 
stantially certain  that,  if  we  did  not  feel, 
^we  could  not  think  and  should  not  act. 
Still  it  remains  true  that,  in  artistic  con- 
templation and  in  the  realms  of  the  artist’s 
imagination  not  only  are  practical  motor- 
reactions  cut  off,  but  intelligence  is  suffused 
in,  and  to  some  extent  subordinated  to, 
emotion. 

One  function,  then,  of  art  is  to  feed  and 
nurture  the  imagination  and  the  spirit,  and 
thereby  enhance  and  iavigorate  the  whole 
of  human  life.  This  is  far  removed  from  the 
view  that  the  end  of  art  is  to  give  pleasure. 
Art  does  usually  cause  pleasure,  singular  and 
intense,  and  to  that  which  causes  such 
pleasure  we  give  the  name  of  Beauty.  But 
to  produce  and  enjoy  Beauty  is  not  the 
function  of  art.  Beauty — or  rather,  the 
sensation  of  Beauty — is  what  the  Greeks 
would  call  an  epigignomenon  ti  telos,  words 
hard  to  translate,  something  between  a 
by-product  and  a supervening  perfection, 
a thing  like — as  Aristotle^  for  once  beauti- 
^ Ethics,  X,  4. 


212  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


fully  says  of  pleasure — “the  bloom  of  youth 
to  a healthy  young  body.” 

That  this  is  so  we  see  most  clearly  in  the 
simple  fact  that,  when  the  artist  begins  to 
aim  direct  at  Beauty,  he  usually  misses  it. 
We  all  know,  perhaps  by  sad  experience, 
that  the  man  who  seeks  out  pleasure  for 
herself  fails  to  find  her.  Let  him  do  his  work 
well  for  that  work’s  sake,  exercise  his  fac- 
ulties, “energize”  as  Aristotle  would  say, 
and  he  will  find  pleasure  come  out  una- 
wares to  meet  him  with  her  shining  face; 
but  let  him  look  for  her,  think  of  her,  even 
desire  her,  and  she  hides  her  head.  A man 
goes  out  hunting,  thinks  of  nothing  but 
following  the  hounds  and  taking  his  fences, 
being  in  at  the  death;  his  day  is  full — 
alas ! of  pleasure,  though  he  has  scarcely 
known  it.  Let  him  forget  the  fox  and  the 
fences,  think  of  pleasure,  desire  her,  and 
he  will  be  in  at  pleasure’s  death. 

So  it  is  with  the  artist.  Let  him  feel 
strongly,  and  see  r aptly — that  is,  in  complete 
detachment.  Let  him  cast  this,  his  rapt 
vision  and  his  intense  emotion,  into  outside 
form,  a statue  or  a painting;  that  form  will 
have  about  it  a nameless  thing,  an  unearthly 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


213 


aroma,  which  we  call  beauty;  this  nameless 
presence  will  cause  in  the  spectator  a sensation 
too  rare  to  be  called  pleasure,  and  we  shall 
call  it  a “sense  of  beauty.”  But  let  the 
artist  aim  direct  at  Beauty,  and  she  is  gone, 
gone  before  we  hear  the  flutter  of  her  wings. 

The  sign  manual,  the  banner,  as  it  were,  of 
artistic  creation  is  for  the  creative  artist  not 
pleasure,  but  something  better  called  joy. 
Pleasure,  it  has  been  well  said,  is  no  more 
than  an  instrument  contrived  by  Nature  to 
obtain  from  the  individual  the  preservation 
and  the  propagation  of  life.  True  joy  is  not 
the  lure  of  life,  but  the  consciousness  of  the 
triumph  of  creation.  Wherever  joy  is,  creation 
has  been.^  It  may  be  the  joy  of  a mother 
in  the  physical  creation  of  a child;  it  may  be 
the  joy  of  the  merchant  adventurer  in  push- 
ing out  new  enterprise,  or  of  the  engineer  in 
building  a bridge,  or  of  the  artist  in  a master- 
piece accomplished;  but  it  is  always  of  the 
thing  created.  Again,  contrast  joy  with 
glory.  Glory  comes  with  success  and  is 
exceedingly  pleasant:  it  is  not  joyous.  Some 
men  say  an  artist’s  crown  is  glory;  his 

1 H.  Bergson,  Life  and  Consciousness,  Huxley  Lecture, 
May  29,  1911. 


214  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 

deepest  satisfaction  is  in  the  applause  of  his 
fellows.  There  is  no  greater  mistake;  we 
care  for  praise  just  in  proportion  as  we  are 
not  sure  we  have  succeeded.  To  the  real 
creative  artist  even  praise  and  glory  are 
swallowed  up  in  the  supreme  joy  of  creation. 
Only  the  artist  himself  feels  the  real  divine 
fire,  but  it  flames  over  into  the  work  of  art, 
and  even  the  spectator  warms  his  hands  at 
the  glow. 

We  can  now,  I think,  understand  the 
difference  between  the  artist  and  true  lover 
of  art  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  mere  aesthete 
on  the  other.  The  aesthete  does  not  produce, 
or,  if  he  produces,  his  work  is  thin  and  scanty. 
In  this  he  differs  from  the  artist;  he  does  not 
feel  so  strongly  and  see  so  clearly  that  he  is 
forced  to  utterance.  He  has  no  joy,  only 
pleasure.  He  caimot  even  feel  the  reflection 
of  this  creative  joy.  In  fact,  he  does  not  so 
much  feel  as  want  to  feel.  He  seeks  for 
pleasure,  for  sensual  pleasure  as  his  name 
says,  not  for  the  grosser  kinds,  but  for 
pleasure  of  that  rarefied  kind  that  we  call 
a sense  of  beauty.  The  aesthete,  like  the 
flirt,  is  cold.  It  is  not  even  that  his  senses 
are  easily  stirred,  but  he  seeks  the  sensation 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


215 


of  stirring,  and  most  often  feigns  it,  not  finds 
it.  The  aesthete  is  no  more  released  from  his 
own  desires  than  the  practical  man,  and  he 
is  without  the  practical  man’s  healthy  outlet 
in  action.  He  sees  life,  not  indeed  in  relation 
to  action,  but  to  his  own  personal  sensation. 
By  this  alone  he  is  debarred  for  ever  from 
being  an  artist.  As  M.  Andre  Beaunier 
has  well  observed,  by  the  irony  of  things, 
when  we  see  life  in  relation  to  ourselves  we 
cannot  really  represent  it  at  all.  The  profli- 
gate thinks  he  knows  women.  It  is  his  irony, 
his  curse  that,  because  he  sees  them  always 
in  relation  to  his  own  desires,  his  own  pleasure, 
he  never  really  knows  them  at  all. 

There  is  another  important  point.  We 
have  seen  that  art  promotes  a part  of  life, 
the  spiritual,  image-making  side.  But  this 
side,  wonderful  though  it  is,  is  never  the 
whole  of  actual  life.  There  is  always  the  _ 
practical  side.  The  artist  is  always  also  a ^ 
man.  Now  the  aesthete  tries  to  make  his 
whole  attitude  artistic — that  is,  contempla- 
tive. He  is  always  looking  and  prying  and 
savouring,  savourant,  as  he  would  say,  when 
he  ought  to  be  living.  The  result  is  that 
there  is  nothing  to  savourer.  AU  art  springs 


216  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


by  way  of  ritual  out  of  keen  emotion  towards 
life,  and  even  the  power  to  appreciate  art 
needs  this  emotional  reality  in  the  spectator. 
The  sesthete  leads  at  best  a parasite,  artistic 
life,  dogged  always  by  death  and  corruption. 

y This  brings  us  straight  on  to  another 
question:  What  about  Art  and  Morality.^ 

Is  Art  immoral,  or  non-moral,  or  highly 
moral?  Here  again  public  opinion  is  worth 
examining.  Artists,  we  are  told,  are  bad 
husbands,  and  they  do  not  pay  their  debts. 
Or  if  they  become  good  husbands  and  take 
to  paying  their  debts,  they  take  also  to 
wallowing  in  domesticity  and  produce  bad 
art  or  none  at  all;  they  get  tangled  in  the 
machinery  of  practical  reactions.  Art,  again, 
is  apt  to  deal  with  risky  subjects.  Where 
should  we  be  if  there  were  not  a Censor  of 
Plays?  Many  of  these  instructive  attitudes 
about  artists  as  immoral  or  non-moral,  ex- 
plain themselves  instantly  if  we  remember 
that  the  artist  is  i'pso  facto  detached  from 
practical  life.  In  so  far  as  he  is  an  artist, 
for  each  and  every  creative  moment  he  is 
inevitably  a bad  husband,  if  being  a good 
husband  means  constant  attention  to  your 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


217 


wife  and  her  interests.  Spiritual  creation  d 
deux  is  a happening  so  rare  as  to  be  negligible. 

The  remoteness  of  the  artist,  his  essential 
inherent  detachment  from  motor-reaction, 
explains  the  perplexities  of  the  normal  censor. 
He,  being  a “practical  man,”  regards  emotion 
and  vision,  feeling  and  ideas,  as  leading  to 
action.  He  does  not  see  that  art  arises  out 
of  ritual  and  that  even  ritual  is  one  remove 
from  practical  life.  In  the  censor’s  world 
the  spectacle  of  the  nude  leads  straight  to 
desire,  so  the  dancer  must  be  draped;  the 
problem-play  leads  straight  to  the  Divorce 
Coiu-t,  therefore  it  must  be  censored.  The 
normal  censor  apparently  knows  nothing  of 
that  world  where  motor-reactions  are  cut 
off,  that  house  made  without  hands,  whose 
doors  are  closed  on  desire,  eternal  in  the 
heavens.  The  censor  is  not  for  the  moment 
a persona  grata,  but  let  us  give  him  his  due. 
He  acts  according  to  his  lights  and  these 
often  quite  adequately  represent  the  average 
darkness.  A normal  audience  contains  many 
“practical”  men  whose  standard  is  the 
same  as  that  of  the  normal  censor.  Art — that 
is  vision  detached  from  practical  reactions — 
is  to  them  an  unknown  world  full  of  moral 


218  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


risks  from  which  the  artist  is  qua  artist 
immune. 

So  far  we  might  perhaps  say  that  art  was 
non-moral.  But  the  statement  would  be 
misleading,  since,  as  we  have  seen,  art  is 
^ in  its  very  origin  social,  and  social  means 
human  and  collective.  Moral  and  social  are, 
I/  in  their  final  analysis,  the  same.  That  hu- 
man, collective  emotion,  out  of  which  we 
have  seen  the  choral  dance  arise,  is  in  its 
essence  moral;  that  is,  it  unites.  “Art,” 
says  Tolstoy,  “has  this  characteristic,  that 
it  unites  people.”  In  this  conviction,  as  we 
shall  later  see,  he  anticipates  the  modern 
movement  of  the  TJnanimists  (p.  249). 

But  there  is  another,  and  perhaps  simpler, 
way  in  which  art  is  moral.  As  already  sug- 
gested, it  purifies  by  cutting  off  the  motor- 
L-^reactions  of  personal  desire.  An  artist  deeply 
in  love  with  his  friend’s  wife  once  said:  “If 
only  I could  paint  her  and  get  what  I want 
from  her,  I could  bear  it.”  His  wish  strikes 
a chill  at  first;  it  sounds  egotistic;  it  has  the 
peculiar,  instinctive,  inevitable  cruelty  of  the 
artist,  seeing  in  human  nature  material  for 
his  art.  But  it  shows  us  the  moral  side  of 
art.  The  artist  was  a good  and  sensitive 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


219 


man;  he  saw  the  misery  he  had  brought  and 
would  bring  to  people  he  loved,  and  he  saw, 
or  rather  felt,  a way  of  escape;  he  saw  that 
through  art,  through  vision,  through  detach- 
ment, desire  might  be  slain,  and  the  man 
within  him  find  peace.  To  some  natures 
this  instinct  after  art  is  almost  their  sole 
morahty.  If  they  find  themselves  intimately 
entangled  in  hate  or  jealousy  or  even  con- 
tempt, so  that  they  are  unable  to  see  the 
object  of  their  hate  or  jealousy  or  contempt 
in  a clear,  quiet,  and  lovely  light,  they  are 
restless,  miserable,  morally  out  of  gear,  and 
they  are  constrained  to  fetter  or  slay  per- 
sonal desire  and  so  find  rest. 

This  aloofness,  this  purgation  of  emotion 
from  personal  passion,  art  has  iu  common 
with  philosophy.  If  the  philosopher  will 
seek  after  truth,  there  must  be,  says  Plotinus, 
a “turning  away”  of  the  spirit,  a detach- 
ment. He  must  aim  at  contemplation; 
action,  he  says,  is  “a  weakening  of  contem- 
plation.” Oiu’  word  theory,  which  we  use  in 
connection  with  reasoning  and  which  comes 
from  the  same  Greek  root  as  theatre,  means 
really  looking  fixedly  at,  contemplation;  it 


220  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


is  very  near  in  meaning  to  our  imagination. 
But  the  philosopher  differs  from  the  artist 
in  this:  he  aims  not  only  at  the  contempla- 
/^tion  of  truth,  but  at  the  ordering  of  truths,  he 
seeks  to  make  of  the  whole  universe  an  in- 
telligible structure.  Further,  he  is  not  driven 
by  the  gadfly  of  creation,  he  is  not  forced  to 
cast  his  images  into  visible  or  audible  shape. 
He  is  remoter  from  the  push  of  life.  Still, 
the  philosopher,  like  the  artist,  lives  in  a world 
of  his  own,  with  a spell  of  its  own  near  akin 
to  beauty,  and  the  secret  of  that  spell  is 
the  same  detachment  from  the  tyranny  of 
practical  life.  The  essence  of  art,  says  Santa- 
yana, is  “the  steady  contemplation  of  things 
in  their  order  and  worth.”  He  might  have 
been  defining  philosophy. 

If  art  and  philosophy  are  thus  near  akin, 
^ art  and  science  are  in  their  beginning,  though 
^ not  in  their  final  development,  contrasted. 

Science,  it  seems,  begins  with  the  desire 
''  for  practical  utility.  Science,  as  Professor 
Bergson  has  told  us,  has  for  its  initial  aim 
the  making  of  tools  for  life.  Man  tries  to 
find  out  the  laws  of  Nature,  that  is,  how 
natural  things  behave,  in  order  primarily 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


221 


that  he  may  get  the  better  of  them,  rule  over 
them,  shape  them  to  his  ends.  That  is  why 
science  is  at  first  so  near  akin  to  magic — the 
cry  of  both  is: 

“I’U  do,  rU  do,  andl’lldo.” 

But,  though  the  feet  of  science  are  thus  firmly 
planted  on  the  solid  ground  of  practical  action, 
her  head,  too,  sometimes  touches  the  highest 
heavens.  The  real  man  of  science,  like  the 
philosopher,  soon  comes  to  seek  truth  and 
knowledge  for  their  own  sake.  In  art,  in 
science,  in  philosophy,  there  come  eventually 
the  same  detachment  from  personal  desire 
and  practical  reaction;  and  to  artist,  man  of 
science,  and  philosopher  alike,  through  this 
detachment  there  comes  at  times  the  same 
peace  that  passeth  all  understanding. 

Attempts  have  been  often  made  to  claim 
for  art  the  utility,  the  tool-making  property, 
that  characterizes  the  beginnings  of  science. 
Nothing  is  beautiful,  it  is  sometimes  said, 
that  is  not  useful;  the  beauty  of  a jug  or  a 
table  depends,  we  are  often  told,  on  its  perfect 
adaptation  to  its  use.  There  is  here  some 
confusion  of  thought  and  some  obvious, 
but  possibly  unconscious,  special  pleading. 


222  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Much  of  art,  specially  decorative  art,  arises 
out  of  utilities,  but  its  aim  and  its  criterion 
is  not  utility.  Art  may  be  structural,  com- 
memorative, magical,  what-not,  may  grow  up 
out  of  all  manner  of  practical  needs,  but  it 
is  not  till  it  is  cut  loose  from  these  practieal 
needs  that  Art  is  herself  and  comes  to  her 
own.  This  does  not  mean  that  the  jugs  or 
tables  are  to  be  bad  jugs  or  tables,  still  less 
does  it  mean  that  the  jugs  or  tables  should 
be  covered  with  senseless  machine-made  orna- 
ment; but  the  utility  of  the  jug  or  table  is  a 
good  in  itself  independent  of,  though  often 
associated  with,  its  merit  as  art. 

No  one  has,  I think,  ever  called  Art  “the 
handmaid  of  Science.”  There  is,  indeed,  no 
need  to  establish  a hierarchy.  Yet  in  a 
sense  the  converse  is  true  and  Science  is  the 
handmaid  of  Art.  Art  is  only  practicable 
as  we  have  seen,  when  it  is  possible  safely 
to  cut  off  motor-reactions.  By  the  long 
discipline  of  ritual  man  accustomed  him- 
self to  slacken  his  hold  on  action,  and  be 
content  with  a shadowy  counterfeit  prac- 
tice. Then  last,  when  through  knowledge 
he  was  relieved  from  the  need  of  immediate 
reaction  to  imminent  realities,  he  loosed 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


223 


hold  for  a moment  altogether,  and  was 
free  to  look,  and  art  was  born.  He  can 
never  qmt  his  hold  for  long;  but  it  would 
seem  that,  as  science  advances  and  life 
gets  easier  and  easier,  safer  and  safer,  he 
may  loose  his  hold  for  longer  spaces.  Man 
subdues  the  world  about  him  first  by  force 
and  then  by  reason;  and  when  the  material 
world  is  mastered  and  lies  at  his  beck,  he 
needs  brute  force  no  longer,  and  needs  reason 
no  more  to  make  tools  for  conquest.  He 
is  free  to  think  for  thought’s  sake,  he  may 
trust  intuition  once  again,  and  above  aU 
dare  to  lose  himself  in  contemplation,  dare 
to  be  more  and  more  an  artist.  Only  here 
there  lurks  an  almost  ironical  danger.  Emo- 
tion towards  life  is  the  primary  stuff  of 
which  art  is  made;  there  might  be  a short- 
age of  this  very  emotional  stuff  of  which 
art  herself  is  ultimately  compacted. 

Science,  then,  helps  to  make  art  possible^ 
by  making  life  safer  and  easier,  it  “makes 
straight  in  the  desert  a highway  for  our 
God.”  But  only  rarely  and  with  special 
limitations  easily  understood  does  it  provide 
actual  material  for  art.  Science  deals  with 
abstractions,  concepts,  class  names,  made 


224  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


by  the  intellect  for  convenience,  that  we 
may  handle  life  on  the  side  desirable  to  us. 
When  we  classify  things,  give  them  class- 
names,  we  simply  mean  that  we  note  for 
convenience  that  certain  actually  existing 
objects  have  similar  qualities,  a fact  it  is 
convenient  for  us  to  know  and  register. 
These  class-names  being  abstract — that  is, 
bundles  of  qualities  rent  away  from  living 
actual  objects,  do  not  easily  stir  emotion, 
and,  therefore,  do  not  easily  become  ma- 
terial for  art  whose  function  it  is  to  express 
and  communicate  emotion.  Particular  qual- 
ities, like  love,  honour,  faith,  may  and 
do  stir  emotion;  and  certain  bundles  of 
qualities  like,  for  example,  motherhood  tend 
towards  personification;  but  the  normal 
class  label  like  horse,  man,  triangle  does  not 
easily  become  material  for  art;  it  remains 
a practical  utility  for  science. 

The  abstractions,  the  class-names  of  sci- 
ence are  in  this  respect  quite  different 
from  those  other  abstractions  or  unreahties 
already  studied — the  gods  of  primitive  re- 
ligion. The  very  term  we  use  shows  this. 
Abstractions  are  things,  qualities,  dragged 
away  consciously  by  the  intellect,  from  actual 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


225 


things  objectively  existing.  The  primitive 
gods  are  personifications— L e.  collective 
emotions  taking  shape  in  imagined  form. 
Dionysos  has  no  more  actual,  objective 
existence  than  the  abstract  horse.  But  the 
god  Dionysos  was  not  made  by  the  intel- 
lect for  practical  convenience,  he  was  be- 
gotten by  emotion,  and,  therefore,  he  re- 
begets it.  He  and  all  the  other  gods  are, 
therefore,  the  proper  material  for  art;  he  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  earliest  forms  of  art. 
The  abstract  horse,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
the  outcome  of  reflection.  We  must  honour 
him  as  of  quite  extraordinary  use  for  the 
purposes  of  practical  life,  but  he  leaves  us 
cold  and,  by  the  artist,  is  best  neglected. 

There  remains  the  relation  of  Art  to 
Religion.^  By  now,  it  may  be  hoped,  this 
relation  is  transparently  clear.  The  whole 
object  of  the  present  book  has  been  to 
show  how  primitive  art  grew  out  of  ritual, 
how  art  is  in  fact  but  a later  and  more  sub- 
limated, more  detached  form  of  ritual.  We 
saw  further  that  the  primitive  gods  them- 
selves were  but  projections  or,  if  we  like 

* Religion  is  here  used  as  meaning  the  worship  of  some 
form  of  god,  as  the  practical  counterpart  of  theology. 


226  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


it  better,  personifications  of  the  rite.  They 
arose  straight  out  of  it. 

Now  we  say  advisedly  “primitive  gods,” 
and  this  with  no  intention  of  obscurantism. 
The  god  of  later  days,  the  unknown  source 
of  life,  the  unresolved  mystery  of  the  world, 
is  not  begotten  of  a rite,  is  not,  essentially 
not,  the  occasion  or  object  of  art.  With 
his  relation  to  art — which  is  indeed  prac- 
tically non-existent — we  have  nothing  to  do. 
Of  the  other  gods  we  may  safely  say  that 
not  only  are  they  objects  of  art,  they  are 
its  prime  material;  in  a word,  primitive 
theology  is  an  early  stage  in  the  formation 
of  art.  Each  primitive  god,  like  the  rite 
from  which  he  sprang,  is  a half-way  house 
between  practical  life  and  art;  he  comes 
into  being  from  a half,  but  only  half,  in- 
hibited desire. 

Is  there,  then,  no  difference,  except  in 
degree  of  detachment,  between  religion  and 
art.?  Both  have  the  like  emotional  power; 
both  carry  with  them  a sense  of  obliga- 
tion, though  the  obligation  of  religion  is 
the  stronger.  But  there  is  one  infallible 
criterion  between  the  two  which  is  all-im- 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE  227 

portant,  and  of  wide-reaching  consequences,  x; 
Primitive  religion  asserts  that  her  imag-  ; 
inations  have  objective  existence;  art  more 
happily  makes  no  such  claim.  The  wor- 
shipper of  Apollo  believes,  not  only  that  [ 
he  has  imagined  the  lovely  figure  of  the 
god  and  cast  a copy  of  its  shape  in  stone, 
but  he  also  believes  that  in  the  outside  world 
the  god  Apollo  exists  as  an  object.  Now 
this  is  certainly  untrue;  that  is,  it  does  not 
correspond  with  fact.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  the  god  Apollo,  and  science  makes 
a clean  sweep  of  Apollo  and  Dionysos  and 
all  such  fictitious  objectivities;  they  are 
eidola,  idols,  phantasms,  not  objective  real- 
ities. Apollo  fades  earlier  than  Dionysos 
because  the  worshipper  of  Dionysos  keeps 
hold  of  the  reality  that  he  and  his  church 
or  group  have  projected  the  god.  He  knows 
that  prier,  c’est  elaborer  Dieu;  or,  as  he 
would  put  it,  he  is  “one  with”  his  god. 
Religion  has  this  in  common  with  art,  that' 
it  discredits  the  actual  practical  world;; 
but  only  because  it  creates  a new  world 
and  insists  on  its  actuality  and  objectivity. 

Why  does  the  conception  of  a god  impose 
obhgation.^  Just  because  and  in  so  far  as 


228  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


he  claims  to  have  objective  existence.  By 
giving  to  his  god  from  the  outset  objective 
existence  the  worshipper  prevents  his  god 
from  taking  his  place  in  that  high  king- 
dom of  spiritual  realities  which  is  the  imag- 
ination, and  sets  him  down  in  that  lower 
objective  world  which  always  compels  prac- 
tical reaction.  What  might  have  been  an 
ideal  becomes  an  idol.  Straightway  this  ob- 
jectified idol  compels  all  sorts  of  ritual  reac- 
tions of  prayer  and  praise  and  sacrifice.  It 
is  as  though  another  and  a more  exacting 
and  commanding  fellow-man  were  added  to 
the  universe.  But  a moment’s  refiection 
will  show  that,  when  we  pass  from  the  vague 
sense  of  power  or  mana  felt  by  the  savage 
to  the  personal  god,  to  Dionysos  or  Apollo, 
though  it  may  seem  a setback  it  is  a real 
advance.  It  is  the  substitution  of  a human 
and  tolerably  humane  power  for  an  in- 
calculable whimsical  and  often  cruel  force. 
The  idol  is  a step  towards,  not  a step  from, 
the  ideal.  Ritual  makes  these  idols,  and 
it  is  the  business  of  science  to  shatter  them 
and  set  the  spirit  free  for  contemplation. 
Ritual  must  wane  that  art  may  wax. 

But  we  must  never  forget  that  ritual  is 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


229 


the  bridge  by  which  man  passes,  the  ladder 
by  which  he  climbs  from  earth  to  heaven. 
The  bridge  must  not  be  broken  tdl  the 
transit  is  made.  And  the  time  is  not  yet. 
We  must  not  pull  down  the  ladder  till  we  are 
sure  the  last  angel  has  climbed.  Only  then,  at 
last,  we  dare  not  leave  it  standing.  Earth  pulls 
hard,  and  it  may  be  that  the  angels  who 
ascended  might  descend  and  be  for  ever  fallen. 

It  may  be  well  at  the  close  of  our  enquiry 
to  test  the  conclusions  at  which  we  have 
arrived  by  comparing  them  with  certain 
endoxa,  as  Aristotle  would  call  them,  that 
is,  opinions  and  theories  actually  current  at 
the  present  moment.  We  take  these  con- 
temporary controversies,  not  implying  that 
they  are  necessarily  of  high  moment  in  the 
history  of  art,  or  that  they  are  in  any  funda- 
mental sense  new  discoveries;  but  because 
they  are  at  this  moment  current  and  vital, 
and  consequently  form  a good  test  for  the 
adequacy  of  our  doctrines.  It  will  be  satis- 
factory if  we  find  our  view  includes  these 
current  opinions,  even  if  it  to  some  extent 
modifies  them  and,  it  may  be  hoped,  sets 
them  in  a new  light. 


230  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


We  have  already  considered  the  theory 
that  holds  art  to  be  the  creation  or  pursuit 
or  enjoyment  of  beauty.  The  other  view 
falls  readily  into  two  groups: 

(1)  The  “imitation”  theory,  with  its  mod- 
ification, the  idealization  theory,  which  holds 
that  art  either  copies  Nature,  or,  out  of 
natural  materials,  improves  on  her. 

(2)  The  “expression”  theory,  which  holds 
that  the  aim  of  art  is  to  express  the  emo- 
tions and  thoughts  of  the  artist. 

The  “Imitation”  theory  is  out  of  fashion 
now-a-days.  Plato  and  Aristotle  held  it; 
though  Aristotle,  as  we  have  seen,  did  not 
mean  by  “imitating  Nature”  quite  what  we 
mean  to-day.  The  Imitation  theory  began 
to  die  down  with  the  rise  of  Romanticism, 
which  stressed  the  personal,  individual  emo- 
tion of  the  artist.  Whistler  dealt  it  a rude, 
ill-considered  blow  by  his  effective,  but 
really  foolish  and  irrelevant,  remark  that 
to  attempt  to  create  Art  by  imitating  Nature 
was  “like  trying  to  make  music  by  sitting 
on  the  piano.”  But,  as  already  noted,  the 
Imitation  theory  of  art  was  really  killed 
by  the  invention  of  photography.  It  was 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


231 


impossible  for  the  most  insensate  not  to 
see  that  in  a work  of  art,  of  sculpture  or 
painting,  there  was  an  element  of  value  not  to 
be  found  in  the  exact  transcript  of  a photo- 
graph. Henceforth  the  Imitation  theory  lived 
on  only  in  the  weakened  form  of  Ideahzation. 

The  reaction  against  the  Imitation  theory 
has  naturally  and  inevitably  gone  much 
too  far.  We  have  “thrown  out  the  child 
with  the  bath-water.”  All  through  the 
present  book  we  have  tried  to  show  that 
art  arises  from  ritual,  and  ritual  is  in  its 
essence  a faded  action,  an  imitation.  More- 
over, every  work  of  art  is  a copy  of  something, 
only  not  a copy  of  anything  having  actual 
existence  in  the  outside  world.  Rather  it 
is  a copy  of  that  inner  and  highly  emotion- 
alized vision  of  the  artist  which  it  is  granted 
to  him  to  see  and  recreate  when  he  is  re- 
leased from  certain  practical  reactions. 

The  Impressionism  that  dominated  the 
pictorial  art  of  the  later  years  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  was  largely  a modified  and 
very  delicate  imitation.  Breaking  with  con- 
ventions as  to  how  things  are  supposed  to  be 
—conventions  mainly  based  not  on  seeing 


232  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


but  on  knowing  or  imagining — the  Im- 
pressionist insists  on  purging  his  vision 
from  knowledge,  and  representing  things 
not  as  they  are  but  as  they  really  look.  He 
imitates  Nature  not  as  a whole,  but  as  she 
presents  herself  to  his  eyes.  It  was  a most 
needful  and  valuable  purgation,  since  paint- 
ing is  the  art  proper  of  the  eye.  But,  when 
the  new  effects  of  the  world  as  simply  seen, 
the  new  material  of  light  and  shadow  and 
tone,  had  been  to  some  extent — never  com- 
pletely— ^mastered,  there  was  inevitable  re- 
action. Up  sprang  Post-Impressionists  and 
Futurists.  They  will  not  gladly  be  classed 
together,  but  both  have  this  in  common — 
they  are  Expressionists,  not  Impressionists, 
not  Imitators. 

The  Expressionists,  no  matter  by  what 
name  they  call  themselves,  have  one  criterion. 
They  believe  that  art  is  not  the  copying  or 
idealizing  of  Nature,  or  of  any  aspect  of  Na- 
ture, but  the  expression  and  communication 
of  the  artist’s  emotion.  We  can  see  that, 
between  them  and  the  Imitationists,  the 
Impressionists  form  a delicate  bridge.  They, 
too,  focus  their  attention  on  the  artist  rather 
than  the  object,  only  it  is  on  the  artist’s 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE  233 


particular  vision,  his  impression,  what  he  actu- 
ally sees,  not  on  his  emotion,  what  he  feels. 

Modern  life  is  not  simple — cannot  be  simple 
— ought  not  to  be;  it  is  not  for  nothing  that 
we  are  heirs  to  the  ages.  Therefore  the  art 
that  utters  and  expresses  our  emotion  towards 
modern  life  cannot  be  simple;  and,  moreover, 
it  must  before  all  things  embody  not  only 
that  hving  tangle  whieh  is  felt  by  the  Futur- 
ists as  so  real,  but  it  must  pmge  and  order  it, 
by  complexities  of  tone  and  rhythm  hitherto 
unattempted.  One  art,  beyond  all  others, 
has  blossomed  into  real,  spontaneous,  un- 
conscious life  to-day,  and  that  is  Music; 
the  other  arts  stand  round  arrayed,  half 
paralyzed,  with  drooping,  empty  hands.  The 
nineteenth  century  saw  vast  developments  in 
an  art  that  could  express  abstract,  unlocalized, 
unpersonified  feelings  more  completely  than 
painting  or  poetry,  the  art  of  Music. 

As  a modern  critic  ^ has  well  observed : 
‘Tn  tone  and  rhythm  music  has  a notation 
for  every  kind  and  degree  of  action  and 
passion,  presenting  abstract  moulds  of  its  ex- 
citement, fluctuation,  suspense,  crisis,  appease- 


1 Mr.  D.  S.  MacCoU. 


234  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


merit;  and  all  this  anonymously,  without 
place,  actors,  circumstances,  named  or  de- 
scribed, without  a word  spoken.  Poetry  has 
to  supply  definite  thought,  arguments  driv- 
ing at  a conclusion,  ideas  mortgaged  to  this 
or  that  creed  or  system;  and  to  give  force  to 
these  can  command  only  a few  rhythms 
limited  by  the  duration  of  a human  breath 
and  the  pitch  of  an  octave.  The  little  effects 
worked  out  in  this  small  compass  music 
sweeps  up  and  builds  into  vast  fabrics  of 
emotion  with  a dissolute  freedom  undreamed 
of  in  any  other  art.” 

It  may  be  that  music  provides  for  a cen- 
tury too  stagnant  and  listless  to  act  out  its 
own  emotions,  too  reflective  to  be  frankly  sen- 
suous, a shadowy  pageant  of  sense  and  emo- 
tion, that  serves  as  a katharsis  or  purgation. 

Anyhow,  “an  art  that  came  out  of  the  old 
world  two  centuries  ago,  with  a few  chants, 
love-songs,  and  dances;  that  a century  ago 
was  still  tied  to  the  words  of  a mass  or  an 
opera;  or  threading  little  dance-movements 
together  in  a ‘suite,’  became  in  the  last 
century  this  extraordinary  debauch,  in  which 
the  man  who  has  never  seen  a battle,  loved 
a woman,  or  worshipped  a god,  may  not  only 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


235 


ideally,  but  through  the  response  of  his  nerves 
and  pulses  to  immediate  rhythmical  attack, 
enjoy  the  ghosts  of  struggle,  rapture,  and 
exaltation  with  a volume  and  intricacy,  an 
anguish,  a triumph,  an  irresponsibility,  un- 
heard of.  An  amplified  pattern  of  action 
and  emotion  is  given:  each  man  may  fit  to 
it  what  images  he  will.”  ^ 

K our  contention  throughout  this  book  be 
correct  the  Expressionists  are  in  one  matter 
abundantly  right.  Art,  we  have  seen,  again 
and  again  rises  by  way  of  ritual  out  of  emo- 
tion, out  of  life  keenly  and  vividly  livid.  The 
younger  generation  are  always  talking  of  life; 
they  have  a sort  of  cult  of  life.  Some  of  the 
more  valorous  spirits  among  them  even  tend 
to  disparage  art  that  life  may  be  the  more 
exalted.  “Stop  painting  and  sculping,” 
they  cry,  “and  go  and  see  a football  match.” 
There  you  have  life!  Life  is,  undoubtedly, 
essential  to  art  because  life  is  the  stuff  of 
emotion,  but  some  thinkers  and  artists  have 
an  oddly  limited  notion  of  what  life  is.  It 
must,  it  seems,  in  the  first  place,  be  essen- 
tially physical.  To  sit  and  dream  in  your 
study  is  not  to  live.  The  reason  of  this  odd 

^D.  S.  MacColl,  Nineteenth  Century  Art,  p.  21.  (1902.) 


236  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


limitation  is  easy  to  see.  We  all  think  life  is 
especially  the  sort  of  life  we  are  not  hving 
ourselves.  The  hard-worked  University  pro- 
fessor thinlcs  that  “Life”  is  to  be  found  in 
a French  cafe;  the  polished  London  journal- 
ist looks  for  “Life”  among  the  naked  Polyne- 
sians. The  cult  of  savagery,  and  even  of  sim- 
plicity, in  every  form,  simply  spells  complex 
civilization  and  diminished  physical  vitality. 

The  Expressionist  is,  then,  triumphantly 
right  in  the  stress  he  lays  on  emotion;  but  he 
is  not  right  if  he  limits  life  to  certain  of 
its  more  elementary  manifestations;  and  still 
less  is  he  right,  to  our  minds,  in  making  life 
and  art  in  any  sense  coextensive.  Art,  as 
we  have  seen,  sustains  and  invigorates  life, 
but  only  does  it  by  withdrawal  from  these 
very  same  elementary  forms  of  life,  by  in- 
hibiting certain  sensuous  reactions. 

In  another  matter  one  section  of  Expres- 
sionists, the  Futurists,  are  in  the  main  right. 
The  emotion  to  be  expressed  is  the  emotion 
of  to-day,  or  still  better  to-morrow.  The 
mimetic  dance  arose  not  only  nor  chiefly 
out  of  reflection  on  the  past;  but  out  of  either 
immediate  joy  or  imminent  fear  or  insistent 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


237 


hope  for  the  future.  We  are  not  prepared 
perhaps  to  go  all  lengths,  to  “burn  all  mu- 
seums” because  of  their  contagious  corrup- 
tion, though  we  might  be  prepared  to  “banish 
the  nude  for  the  space  of  ten  years.”  If 
there  is  to  be  any  true  living  art,  it  must ' 
arise,  not  from  the  contemplation  of  Greek 
statues,  not  from  the  revival  of  folk-songs, 
not  even  from  the  re-enacting  of  Greek  plays, 
but  from  a keen  emotion  felt  towards  things 
and  people  living  to-day,  in  modern  condi- 
tions, including,  among  other  and  deeper 
forms  of  life,  the  haste  and  hurry  of  the  mod- 
ern street,  the  whirr  of  motor  cars  and  aero- 
planes. 

There  are  artists  alive  to-day,  strayed 
revellers,  who  wish  themselves  back  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  who  long  for  the  time  when 
each  man  would  have  his  house  carved  with 
a bit  of  lovely  ornament,  when  every  village 
church  had  its  Madonna  and  Child,  when, 
in  a word,  art  and  life  and  religion  went  hand 
in  hand,  not  sharply  sundered  by  castes  and 
professions.  But  we  may  not  put  back  the 
clock,  and,  if  by  differentiation  we  lose  some- 
thing, we  gain  much.  The  old  choral  dance 
on  the  orchestral  floor  was  an  undifferentiated 


238  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


thing,  it  had  a beauty  of  its  own;  but  by  its 
differentiation,  by  the  severance  of  artist  and 
actors  and  spectators,  we  have  gained — the 
drama.  We  may  not  cast  reluctant  eyes  back- 
wards; the  world  goes  forward  to  new  forms  of 
life,  and  the  Churches  of  to-day  must  and 
should  become  the  Museums  of  to-morrow. 

It  is  curious  and  instructive  to  note  that 
Tolstoy’s  theory  of  Art,  though  not  his 
practice,  is  essentially  Expressive  and  even 
approaches  the  dogmas  of  the  Futurist.  Art 
is  to  him  just  the  transmission  of  personal 
emotion  to  others.  It  may  be  bad  emotion 
or  it  may  be  good  emotion,  emotion  it  must 
be.  To  take  his  simple  and  instructive 
instance:  a boy  goes  out  into  a wood  and 
meets  a wolf,  he  is  frightened,  he  comes  back 
and  tells  the  other  villagers  what  he  felt,  how 
he  went  to  the  wood  feeling  happy  and  light- 
hearted and  the  wolf  came,  and  what  the  wolf 
looked  like,  and  how  he  began  to  be  fright- 
ened. This  is,  according  to  Tolstoy,  art. 
Even  if  the  boy  never  saw  a wolf  at  all,  if  he 
had  really  at  another  time  been  frightened, 
and  if  he  was  able  to  conjure  up  fear  in  him- 
self and  communicate  it  to  others — that  also 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


239 


would  be  art.  The  essential  is,  according  to 
Tolstoy,  that  he  should  feel  himself  and  so 
represent  his  feeling  that  he  communicates^ 
it  to  others.^  Art-schools,  art-professional- 
ism, art-criticism  are  all  useless  or  worse  than 
useless,  because  they  cannot  teach  a man  to^ 
feel.  Only  life  can  do  that. 

All  art  is,  according  to  Tolstoi,  good  qua 
art  that  succeeds  in  transmitting  emotion. 
But  there  is  good  emotion  and  bad  emotion, 
and  the  only  right  material  for  art  is  good 
emotion,  and  the  only  good  emotion,  the  only 
emotion  worth  expressing,  is  subsumed,  ac- 
cording to  Tolstoy,  in  the  religion  of  the  day. 
This  is  how  he  explains  the  constant  affinity 
in  nearly  all  ages  of  art  and  religion.  Instead 
of  regarding  rehgion  as  an  early  phase  of  art, 
he  proceeds  to  define  religious  perception  as 
the  highest  social  ideal  of  the  moment,  as 
that  “understanding  of  the  meaning  of  life 
which  represents  the  highest  level  to  which 
men  of  that  society  have  attained,  an  under- 
standing defining  the  highest  good  at  which 


I It  is  interesting  to  find,  since  the  above  was  written, 
that  the  Confession  of  Faith  published  in  the  catalogue  of 
the  Second  Post-Impressionist  Exhibition  (1912,  p.  21)  re- 
produces, consciously  or  unconsciously,  Tolstoy’s  view; 
We  have  ceased  to  ask,  “What  does  this  picture  represent?” 
and  ask  instead,  “What  does  it  make  us  feel?” 


240  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


that  society  aims.”  “Religious  perception 
in  a society,”  he  beautifully  adds,  “is  like  the 
direction  of  a flowing  river.  If  the  river 
flows  at  all,  it  must  have  a direction.”  Thus, 
religion,  to  Tolstoy,  is  not  dogma,  not  petri- 
faction, it  makes  indeed  dogma  impossible. 
The  religious  perception  of  to-day  flows, 
Tolstoi  says,  in  the  Christian  channel  towards 
the  union  of  man  in  a common  brotherhood.  It 
is  the  business  of  the  modern  artist  to  feel  and 
transmit  emotion  towards  this  unity  of  man. 

Now  it  is  not  our  purpose  to  examine 
whether  Tolstoy’s  deflnition  of  religion  is 
adequate  or  indeed  illuminating.  What  we 
wish  to  note  is  that  he  grasps  the  truth  that 
in  art  we  must  look  and  feel,  and  look  and 
feel  forward,  not  backward,  if  we  would  live. 
Art  somehow,  like  language,  is  always  feeling 
forward  to  newer,  fuller,  subtler  emotions. 
She  seems  indeed  in  a way  to  feel  ahead  even 
of  science;  a poet  will  forecast  dimly  what  a 
later  discovery  will  confirm.  Whether  and 
how  long  old  channels,  old  forms  will  suffice 
for  the  new  spirit  can  never  be  foreseen. 

We  end  with  a point  of  great  importance, 
though  the  doctrine  we  would  emphasize 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


241 


may  be  to  some  a hard  saying,  even  a sturn-^^ 
bling-block.  Art,  as  Tolstoy  divined,  is  , 
social,  not  individual.  Art  is,  as  we  have 
seen,  social  in  origin,  it  remains  and  musty- 
remain  social  in  function.  The  dance  from 
which  the  drama  rose  was  a choral  dance, 
the  dance  of  a band,  a group,  a church,  a 
community,  what  the  Greeks  called  a thiasos. 
The  word  means  a hand  and  a thing  of  devo- 
tion; and  reverence,  devotion,  collective  emo- 
tion, is  social  in  its  very  being.  That  band 
was,  to  begin  with,  as  we  saw,  the  whole  collec- 
tion of  initiated  tribesmen,  linked  by  a com- 
mon name,  rallying  round  a common  symbol. 

Even  to-day,  when  individualism  is  ram- 
pant, art  bears  traces  of  its  collective,  social 
origin.  We  feel  about  it,  as  noted  before, 
a certain  “ought”  which  always  spells  social 
obligation.  Moreover,  whenever  we  have  a 
new  movement  in  art,  it  issues  from  a group, 
usually  from  a small  professional  coterie,  but 
marked  by  strong  social  instincts,  by  a 
missionary  spirit,  by  intemperate  zeal  in 
propaganda,  by  a tendency,  always  social,  to 
crystalhze  conviction  into  dogma.  We  can 
scarcely,  unless  we  are  as  high-hearted  as 
Tolstoy,  hope  now-a-days  for  an  art  that 


242  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


shall  be  world-wide.  The  tribe  is  extinct, 
the  family  in  its  old  rigid  form  moribund,  the 
social  groups  we  now  look  to  as  centres  of 
emotion  are  the  groups  of  industry,  of  pro- 
fessionalism and  of  sheer  mutual  attraction. 
Small  and  strange  though  such  groups  may 
appear,  they  are  real  social  factors. 

^ Now  this  social,  collective  element  in  art 
is  too  apt  to  be  forgotten.  When  an  artist 
claims  that  expression  is  the  aim  of  art  he 
is  too  apt  to  mean  seK-expression  only — 
utterance  of  individual  emotion.  Utterance 
of  individual  emotion  is  very  closely  neigh- 
boured by,  is  almost  identical  with,  self- 
enhancement. What  should  be  a generous, 
and  in  part  altruistic,  exaltation  becomes 
mere  megalomania.  This  egotism  is,  of 
course,  a danger  inherent  in  all  art.  The 
suspension  of  motor-reactions  to  the  practi- 
cal world  isolates  the  artist,  cuts  him  off 
from  his  fellow-men,  makes  him  in  a sense 
an  egotist.  Art,  said  Zola,  is  “the  world  seen 
through  a temperament.”  But  this  suspen- 
sion is,  not  that  he  should  turn  inward  to 
feed  on  his  own  vitals,  but  rather  to  free 
him  for  contemplation.  All  great  art  releases 
from  self. 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


243 


The  young  are  often  temporary  artists; 
art,  being  based  on  life,  calls  for  a strong 
vitality.  The  young  are  also  self-centred 
and  seek  self-enhancement.  This  need  of 
self-expression  is  a sort  of  artistic  impulse. 
The  young  are,  partly  from  sheer  immatirrity, 
still  more  through  a foolish  convention, 
shut  out  from  real  life;  they  are  secluded, 
forced  to  become  in  a sense  artists,  or,  if 
they  have  not  the  power  for  that,  at  least 
self-aggrandizers.  They  write  lyric  poems, 
they  love  masquerading,  they  focus  life  on 
to  themselves  in  a way  which,  later  on,  life 
itself  makes  impossible.  This  pseudo-art, 
this  self-aggrandizement  usually  dies  a nat- 
ural death  before  the  age  of  thirty.  If  it 
live  on,  one  remedy  is,  of  course,  the  scien- 
tific attitude;  that  attitude  which  is  bent  on 
considering  and  discovering  the  relations  of 
things  among  themselves,  not  their  personal 
relation  to  us.  The  study  of  science  is  a 
priceless  discipline  in  self-abnegation,  but 
only  in  negation;  it  looses  us  from  self,  it  does 
not  link  us  to  others.  The  real  and  natural 
remedy  for  the  egotism  of  youth  is  Life,  not 
necessarily  the  haunting  of  cafe,  or  even  the 
watching  of  football  matches,  but  strenuous 


244  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


activity  in  the  simplest  human  relations  of 
daily  happenings.  “Whatsoever  thy  hand 
findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might.” 

There  is  always  apt  to  be  some  discord 
between  the  artist  and  the  large  practical 
world  in  which  he  lives,  but  those  ages  are 
happiest  in  which  the  discord  is  least.  The 
nineteenth  century,  amid  its  splendid  achieve- 
ments in  science  and  industry,  in  government 
and  learning,  and  above  all  in  humanity, 
illustrates  this  conflict  in  an  interesting  way. 
To  literature,  an  art  which  can  explain  itself, 
the  great  public  world  lent  on  the  whole  a 
reverent  and  intelligent  ear.  Its  great  prose 
writers  were  at  peace  with  their  audience  and 
were  inspired  by  great  public  interests.  Some 
of  the  greatest,  for  example  Tolstoy,  pro- 
duced their  finest  work  on  widely  human 
subjects,  and  numbered  their  readers  and 
admirers  probably  by  the  million.  Writers 
like  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Kingsley,  Mill,  and 
Carlyle,  even  poets  like  Tennyson  and  Brown- 
ing, were  full  of  great  public  interests  and 
causes,  and,  in  different  degrees  and  at  differ- 
ent stages  of  their  lives,  were  thoroughly  and 
immensely  popular.  On  the  other  hand,  one 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


245 


can  find,  at  the  beginning  of  the  period, 
figures  like  Blake  and  Shelley,  and  all  through 
it  a number  of  painters  — the  pre-Raphaelites, 
the  Impressionists — walking  like  aliens  in  a 
Philistine  world.  Even  great  figures  like 
Burne-Jones  and  Whistler  were  for  the  greater 
part  of  their  lives  unrecognized  or  mocked  at. 
Millais  reached  the  attention  of  the  world, 
but  was  thought  by  the  stricter  fraternity  to 
have  in  some  sense  or  other  sold  his  soul  and 
committed  the  great  sin  of  considering  the 
bourgeois.  The  bourgeois  should  be  despised 
not  partially  but  completely.  His  life,  his 
interests,  his  code  of  ethics  and  conduct  must 
all  be  matters  of  entire  indifference  or  amused 
contempt,  to  the  true  artist  who  intends  to 
do  his  own  true  work  and  call  his  soul  his  own. 

At  a certain  moment,  during  the  eighties 
and  nineties,  it  looked  as  if  these  doctrines 
were  generally  accepted,  and  the  divorce 
between  art  and  the  community  had  become 
permanent.  But  it  seems  as  if  this  attitude, 
which  coincided  with  a period  of  reaction  in 
political  matters  and  a recrudescence  of  a 
belief  in  force  and  on  reasoned  authority,  is 
already  passing  away.  There  are  not  wanting 
signs  that  art,  both  in  painting  and  sculpture, 


246  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


and  in  poetry  and  novel-writing,  is  beginning 
again  to  realize  its  social  function,  beginning 
to  be  impatient  of  mere  individual  emotion, 
beginning  to  aim  at  something  bigger,  more 
bound  up  with  a feeling  towards  and  for  the 
common  weal. 

Take  work  like  that  of  Mr.  Galsworthy  or 
Mr.  Masefield  or  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett.  With- 
out appraising  its  merits  or  demerits  we  can- 
not but  note  that  the  social  sense  is  always 
there,  whether  it  be  of  a class  or  of  a whole 
community.  In  a play  like  Justice  the  writer 
does  not  “express”  himself,  he  does  not 
even  merely  show  the  pathos  of  a single 
human  being’s  destiny,  he  sets  before  us  a 
much  bigger  thing — man  tragically  caught 
and  torn  in  the  iron  hands  of  a man-made 
machine.  Society  itself.  Incarnate  Law  is 
the  protagonist,  and,  as  it  happens,  the  villain 
of  the  piece.  It  is  a fragment  of  Les  MisS- 
rables  over  again,  in  a severer  and  more  re- 
strained technique.  An  art  like  this  starts, 
no  doubt,  from  emotion  towards  personal 
happenings — there  is  nothing  else  from  which 
it  can  start;  but,  even  as  it  sets  sail  for  wider 
seas,  it  is  loosed  from  personal  moorings. 

Science  has  given  us  back  something 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


247 


strangely  like  a World-Soul,  and  art  is  begin- 
ning to  feel  she  must  utter  our  emotion  to- 
wards it.  Such  art  is  exposed  to  an  inherent 
and  imminent  peril.  Its  very  bigness  and 
newness  tends  to  set  up  fresh  and  powerful 
reactions.  Unless,  in  the  process  of  creation, 
these  can  be  inhibited,  the  artist  will  be  lost 
in  the  reformer,  and  the  play  or  the  novel 
turn  tract.  This  does  not  mean  that  the 
artist,  if  he  is  strong  enough,  may  not  be  re- 
former too,  only  not  at  the  moment  of  crea- 
tion. 

The  art  of  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  gets  its 
bigness,  its  collectivity,  in  part — from  exten- 
sion over  time.  Far  from  seeking  after 
beauty,  he  almost  goes  out  to  embrace  ugli- 
ness. He  does  not  spare  us  even  dullness, 
that  we  may  get  a sense  of  the  long,  waste 
spaces  of  life,  their  dreary  reality.  We  are 
keenly  interested  in  the  loves  of  hero  and 
heroine,  but  all  the  time  something  much 
bigger  is  going  on,  generation  after  genera- 
tion rolls  by  in  ceaseless  panorama;  it  is 
the  life  not  of  Edwin  and  Hilda,  it  is  the  life 
of  the  Five  Towns.  After  a vision  so  big,  to 
come  back  to  the  ordinary  individualistic 
love-story  is  like  looking  through  the  wrong 
end  of  a telescope. 


248  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


Art  of  high  quality  and  calibre  is  seldom 
obseure.  The  great  popular  writers  of  the 
nineteenth  century — Dickens,  Thackeray, 
Tennyson,  Tolstoy — wrote  so  that  all  could 
understand.  A really  big  artist  has  some- 
thing important  to  say,  something  vast  to 
show,  something  that  moves  him  and  presses 
on  him;  and  he  will  say  it  simply  because  he 
must  get  it  said.  He  will  trick  it  out  with 
no  devices,  most  of  all  with  no  obscurities. 
It  has  vexed  and  torn  him  enough  while  it 
was  pushing  its  way  to  be  born.  He  has  no 
peace  till  it  is  said,  and  said  as  clearly  as  he 
may.  He  says  it,  not  consciously  for  the 
sake  of  others,  but  for  himself,  to  ease  him 
from  the  burden  of  big  thought.  Moreover, 
art,  whose  business  is  to  transmit  emotion, 
should  need  no  commentary.  Art  comes  out 
of  theoria,  contemplation,  steady  looking  at, 
but  never  out  of  theory.  Theory  can  neither 
engender  nor  finally  support  it.  An  exhibi- 
tion of  pictures  with  an  explanatory  catalogue, 
scientifically  interesting  though  it  may  be, 
stands,  in  a sense,  self-condemned. 

We  must,  however,  remember  that  all  art 
is  not  of  the  whole  community.  There  are 
small  groups  feeling  their  own  small  but 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


249 


still  collective  emotion,  fashioning  their  own 
language,  obscure  sometimes  to  all  but  them- 
selves. They  are  right  so  to  fashion  it,  but, 
if  they  appeal  to  a wider  world,  they  must 
strive  to  speak  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  under- 
standed  of  the  people. 

It  is,  indeed,  a hopeful  sign  of  the  times,  a 
mark  of  the  revival  of  social  as  contrasted 
with  merely  individualistic  instincts  that 
a younger  generation  of  poets,  at  least  in 
France,  tend  to  form  themselves  into  small 
groups,  held  together  not  merely  by  eccen- 
tricities of  language  or  garb,  but  by  some  deep 
inner  conviction  strongly  held  in  common. 
Such  a unity  of  spirit  is  seen  in  the  works  of 
the  latter  group  of  thinkers  and  writers 
known  as  Unanimists.  They  tried  and  failed 
to  found  a community.  Their  doctrine,  if 
doctrine  convictions  so  fluid  can  be  called,  is 
strangely  like  the  old  group-religion  of  the 
common  dance,  only  more  articulate.  Of  the 
Unanimist  it  might  truly  be  said,  “^7  huvait 
V indistinction”  To  him  the  harsh  old  Roman 
mandate  Divide  et  impera,  “Divide  men  that 
you  may  rule  them,”  spells  death.  His 
dream  is  not  of  empire  and  personal  property 


250  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


but  of  the  realization  of  life,  common  to  all. 
To  this  school  the  great  reality  is  the  social 
group,  whatever  form  it  take,  f amily,  • village 
or  town.  Their  only  dogma  is  the  unity  and 
immeasurable  sanctity  of  life.  In  practice 
they  are  Christian,  yet  wholly  free  from  the 
asceticism  of  modern  Christianity.  Their 
attitude  in  art  is  as  remote  as  possible  from, 
it  is  indeed  the  very  antithesis  to,  the  aesthetic 
exclusiveness  of  the  close  of  last  century. 
Like  St.  Peter,  the  Unanimists  have  seen  a 
sheet  let  down  and  heard  a voice  from 
heaven  saying:  “Call  thou  nothing  common 
nor  unclean.” 

Above  all,  the  Unanimist  remembers  and 
realizes  afresh  the  old  truth  that  “no  man 
liveth  unto  himself.”  According  to  the 
Expressionist’s  creed,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
end  of  art  is  to  utter  and  communicate  emo- 
tion. The  fullest  and  finest  emotions  are 
those  one  human  being  feels  towards  another. 
Every  sympathy  is  an  enrichment  of  life, 
every  antipathy  a negation.  It  follows  then, 
that,  for  the  Unanimist,  Love  is  the  fulfilling 
of  his  Law. 

It  is  a beautiful  and  life-giving  faith,  felt 
and  with  a perfect  sincerity  expressed  towards 


RITUAL,  ART,  AND  LIFE 


251 


all  nature  by  the  Indian  poet  Tagore,  and 
towards  humanity  especially  by  M.  Vildrac 
in  his  Booh  of  Love  (“Livre  d’Amour”).  He 
tells  us  in  his  “Commentary”  how  to-day 
the  poet,  sitting  at  home  with  pen  and  paper 
before  him,  feels  that  he  is  pent  in,  stifled 
by  himself.  He  had  been  about  to  re-tell 
the  old,  old  story  of  himself,  to  set  himself 
once  more  on  the  stage  of  his  poem — the 
same  old  dusty  self  tricked  out,  costumed 
anew.  Suddenly  he  knows  the  figure  to  be 
tawdry  and  shameful.  He  is  hot  all  over 
when  he  looks  at  it;  he  must  out  into  the 
air,  into  the  street,  out  of  the  stuffy  museiun 
where  so  long  he  has  stirred  the  dead  egotist 
ashes,  out  into  the  bigger  life,  the  life  of  his 
fellows;  he  must  five,  with  them,  by  them, 
in  them. 

“I  am  weary  of  deeds  done  inside  myself, 

I am  weary  of  voyages  inside  myself. 

And  of  heroism  wrought  by  strokes  of  the 
pen. 

And  of  a beauty  made  up  of  formulae. 

“I  am  ashamed  of  lying  to  my  work, 

Of  my  work  lying  to  my  life. 


252  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL 


And  of  being  able  to  content  myself. 

By  burning  sweet  spiees, 

With  the  mouldering  smell  that  is  master 
here.” 

Again,  in  “The  Conquerors,”  the  poet 
dreams  of  the  Victorious  One  who  has  no  army, 
the  Knight  who  rides  afoot,  the  Crusader 
without  breviary  or  serip,  ■ the  Pilgrim  of 
Love  who,  by  the  shining  in  his  eyes,  draws 
all  men  to  him,  and  they  in  turn  draw  other 
men  until,  at  last:  , 

“The  time  came  in  the  land. 

The  time  of  the  Great  Conquest, 

When  the  people  with  this  desire 
Left  the  threshold  of  their  door 
To  go  forth  towards  one  another. 

“And  the  time  came  in  the  land 
When  to  fill  all  its  story 
There  was  nothing  but  songs  in  unison, 
One  round  danced  about  the  houses. 

One  battle  and  one  victory.” 

And  so  our  tale  ends  where  it  began,  with 
the  Choral  Dance. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


For  Ancient  and  Primitive  Ritual  the  best  general  book  of 
reference  is: 

Frazer,  J.  G.  The  Golden  Baugh,  3rd  edition,  1911,  from 
which  most  of  the  instances  in  the  present  manual  are 
taken.  Part  IV  of  The  Golden  Bough,  i.  e.  the  section 
dealing  with  Adonis,  Attis,  and  Osiris,  should  especially 
be  consulted. 

Also  an  earlier,  epoch-making  book: 

Robertson  Smith,  W.  Lectures  on  the  Religion  of  the  Semites, 
1889.  For  certain  fundamental  ritual  notions,  e.  g.  sacri- 
fice, holiness,  etc. 

For  the  Greek  Drama,  as  arising  out  of  the  ritual  dance: 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray’s  Excursus  on  the  Ritual  Forms 
preserved  in  Greek  Tragedy  in  J.  E.  Harrison’s  Themis, 
1912,  and  pp.  327H10  in  the  same  book;  and  for  the  religion  of 
Dionysos  and  the  drama,  J.  E.  Harrison’s  Prolegomena,  1907, 
Chapters  VHI  and  X.  An  important  discussion  of  the  relation 
of  tragedy  to  the  winter  festival  of  the  Lenaia  will  appear  in 
Mr.  A.  B.  Cook’s  forthcoming  Zeus,  vol.  i,  sec.  6 (xxi). 

For  Primitive  Art: 

Hirn,  Y.  The  Origins  of  Art,  1900.  The  main  theory  of  the 
book  the  present  writer  believes  to  be  inadequate,  but  it 
contains  an  excellent  collection  of  facts  relating  to  Art, 
Magic,  Art  and  Work,  Mimetic  Dances,  etc.,  and  much 
valuable  discussion  of  principles. 

Grosse,  E.  The  Beginnings  of  Art,  1897,  in  the  Chicago 
Anthropological  Series.  Valuable  for  its  full  illustrations 
of  primitive  art,  as  well  as  for  text. 

253 


254 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


For  the  Theory  of  Art: 

Tolstoy,  L.  What  is  Art?  Translated  by  Aylmer  Maude, 
in  the  Scott  Library. 

Fby,  Roger  E.  An  Essay  in  Esthetics,  in  the  New  Quarterly, 
April,  1909,  p.  174. 

This  is  the  best  general  statement  of  the  function  of  Art 
known  to  me.  It  should  be  read  in  connection  with  Mr. 
Bullough’s  article  quoted  on  p.  129,  which  gives  the  psycho- 
logical basis  of  a similar  view  of  the  nature  of  art.  My  own 
theory  was  formulated  independently,  in  relation  to  the  de- 
velopment of  the  Greek  theatre,  but  I am  very  glad  to  find 
that  it  is  in  substantial  agreement  with  those  of  two  such 
distinguished  authorities  on  aesthetics. 

For  more  advanced  students: 

Dussauze,  Henri.  Les  Regies  esthetiques  et  les  lois  du 
sentiment,  1911. 

Muller-Freieneels,  R.  Psyckologie  der  Kunst,  1912. 


INDEX 


Abstbaction,  224 
Adonis»  rites  of,  19,  20,  64—56 

, gardens  of,  149 

, as  tree  spirit,  149 

Aesthete,  not  artist,  214-215 
Agon,  15 

Anagnorisis,  or  recognition,  15 
Antbesteria,  spring  festival  of, 
147-149 

Apollo  Belvedere,  171 
Aristotle  on  art,  198 
Art  and  beauty,  213 

and  imitation,  230 

and  morality,  216 

and  nature,  198 

and  religion,  225 

, emotional  factor  in,  26 

, social  elements  in,  241—248 

Ascension  festival,  69 

Bear,  Aino  festival,  92-99 
Beast  dances,  45,  46 
Beauty  and  art,  211 
Bergson  on  art,  134 
Birth,  rites  of  new,  104—113 
Bouphonia,  91-92 
Bull-driving  in  spring,  85 
, festival  at  Magnesia,  87 

Cat’s  cradle,  as  magical  charm,  66 
Censor,  function  of,  216 
Charila,  spring  festival,  80 
Chorus  in  Greek  drama,  121—123 

Dancing,  a work,  31-32 

, magical,  31—35 

, commemorative,  44 

Daphnephoros,  186 
Death  and  winter,  07—72 
Dik^  as  way  ofHfey  116 
Dionysia,  12,  150 
Dionysos  as  Holy  Child,  103 

as  tree  god,  102 

as  young  man,  113—115 

Dithyramb,  76-89 

Drama  and  Dromenon,  36—38 

Easter,  in  Modern  Greece,  73 
Eiresione,  114 


Epheboi,  Athenian,  12 
Euche,  meaning  of,  25 
Expressionists,  232 

Futurists,  232 

Ghosts  as  fertilizers,  149 

Homer,  influence  on  drama,  145— 
166 

Horae  or  seasons,  116 

Idol  and  ideal,  227 
Imitation,  21-23 

, ceremonies  in  Australia,  64 

Impressionism,  231 
Individualism,  241 
Initiation  ceremonies,  64,  106—113 

Jack-in-the-Green,  60,  187,  190 

Kangaroos,  dance  of,  46 

Landscape,  art  of,  199-201 

Maeterlinck,  201 
May-day  at  Cambridge,  57 
May,  queen  of  the,  67-61 

, king  of  the,  193 

Mime,  meaning  of,  47 
Mimesis,  44-47 
Music,  function  of,  233 

New  birth,  106—113 

Olympian  gods,  202 
Orchestra,  meaning  of,  123-127 
Osiris,  rites  of,  15—23,  61 
Ox-hunger,  81 

Panathenaia,  178 
Panspermia,  148 
Parthenon  frieze,  176 
Peisistratos,  146 
Peplos  of  Athena,  180 
Perikles  on  religion,  178 
Personification  and  conception,  70- 
73 

Plato  on  art,  21-23 


255 


256 


INDEX 


Pleasure  not  ^‘oy,  213 
Post-Irapressionists,  239 
Prayer  disk,  24 
Presentation,  meaning  of,  53 
Psychical  distance,  129-134 

Representation,  34-41 
R^urrection,  rites  of,  100 
Rites,  periodicity  of,  52 
Ritual  forms  in  drama,  138-139 

Santayana  on  art,  220 
Semele,  bringing  up  of,  81 
Spring  song  at  Saffron  Walden,  69 

at  Athens,  77 

Stage  or  scene,  142-145 
Summer,  bringing  in  of,  67-71 

Tammuz,  rites  of,  19-20 
T^l?te,  rife  of  growtng  up,  112 
Theatre,  10-13,  136 


Themis,  as  ritual  custom,  117 
Theoria  and  theory,  248 
Threshing-floor  as  dancing-place, 
124 

Tolstoy  on  art,  132,  238-241 
Totemism  and  beast  dances,  46,  47 
Tragedy,  ritual  forms  in,  119-122 

, origin  of,  76 

Tug  of  war,  among  Esquimaux,  62 

Unanimism,  249-262 

Vegetation  spirit,  72 

Winter,  carrying  out  of,  68-72 
Wool,  sacred,  12 
World-soul,  247 
Wreaths,  festival  of,  189 
, at  Greek  weddings,  190 

Zola  on  art,  242 


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20.  HISTORY  OF  OUR  TIME  (1885-1911).  By  C.  P. 
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Temporal  Power. 

26.  THE  DAWN  OF  HISTORY.  By  J.  L.  Myres, 
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30.  ROME.  By  W.  Warde  Fowler,  author  of  “Social  Life 
at  Rome,”  etc. 

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lard, F.B.A.,  D.Litt.,  Professor  of  English  History, 
University  of  London. 

34.  CANADA.  By  A.  G.  Bradley. 

36.  PEOPLES  AND  PROBLEMS  OF  INDIA.  By  Sir 
T.  W.  Holderness,  G.C.B.  “The  best  small  treatise 
dealing  with  the  range  of  subjects  fairly  indicated  by  the 
title.” — The  Dial. 

51.  MASTER  MARINERS.  By  John  R.  Spears,  author 
of  “The  History  of  Our  Navy,”  etc.  A history  of  sea- 
craft  adventure  from  the  earliest  times. 


57-  NAPOLEON.  By  The  Rt.  Hon.  H.  A.  L.  Fisher, 

Warden  of  New  College,  Oxford.  Author  of  “The  Re- 
publican Tradition  in  Europe.” 

72.  GERMANY  OF  TO-DAY.  By  Charles  Tower. 

76.  THE  OCEAN.  A GENERAL  ACCOUNT  OF  THE 
SCIENCE  OF  THE  SEA.  By  Sir  John  Murray, 
K.C.B.,  Naturalist  H.  M.  S.  “Challenger,”  1872-1876, 
joint  author  of  “The  Depths  of  the  Ocean,”  etc. 

78.  LATIN  AMERICA.  By  William  R.  Shepherd,  Pro- 
fessor of  History,  Columbia.  With  maps.  The  historical, 
artistic  and  commercial  development  of  the  Central  South 
American  republics. 

84.  THE  GROWTH  OF  EUROPE.  By  Granville  A.  J. 
Cole,  Professor  of  Geology,  Royal  College  of  Science, 
Ireland.  A study  of  the  geology  and  physical  geography 
in  connection  with  the  political  geography. 

86.  EXPLORATION  OF  THE  ALPS.  By  Arnold 
Lunn,  M.A. 

92.  THE  ANCIENT  EAST.  By  D.  G.  Hogarth,  M.A., 
F.B.A.,  F.S.A.  Connects  with  Prof.  Myres’s  “Dawn  of 
Historj^’  (No.  26)  at  about  1000  b.c.  and  reviews  the 
history  of  Assyria,  Babylon,  Cilicia,  Persia  and  Macedonia. 

94.  THE  NAVY  AND  SEA  POWER.  By  David  Han- 
nay,  author  of  “Short  History  of  the  Royal  Navy,”  etc. 
A brief  history  of  the  navies,  sea  power,  and  ship  growth 
of  all  nations,  including  the  rise  and  decline  of  America  on 
the  sea,  and  explaining  the  present  British  supremacy. 

95.  BELGIUM.  By  R.  C.  K.  Ensor,  sometime  Scholar  of 
Balliol  College.  The  geographical,  linguistic,  historical, 
artistic  and  literary  associations. 

100.  POLAND.  By  J.  Alison  Phillips,  Lecky  Professor  of 
Modem  History,  University  of  Dublin.  The  history  of 
Poland  with  special  emphasis  upon  the  Polish  question  of 
the  present  day. 

102.  SERBIA.  By  L.  F.  Waring,  with  preface  by  J.  M. 
Jovanovitch,  Serbian  Minister  to  Great  Britain.  The 
main  outlines  of  Serbian  history,  with  special  emphasis  on 
the  immediate  causes  of  the  war  and  the  questions  in  the 
after-the-war  settlement. 

104.  OUR  FORERUNNERS.  By  M.  C.  Burkitt,  M.A., 
F.S.A.  A comprehensive  study  of  the  beginnings  of  man- 
kind and  the  culture  of  the  prehistoric  era. 


105.  COMMERCIAL  GEOGRAPHY.  By  Dr.  Marion  I. 
Newbigin,  F.R.G.S.,  D.Sc.  Fundamental  conceptions  of 
commodities,  transport  and  market. 

io8.  WALES.  By  W.  Watkin  Davies,  M.A.,  F.R.  Hist. 

S.,  Barrister-at-Law,  author  of  “How  to  Read  History,” 
etc. 

no.  EGYPT.  By  Sir  E.  A.  Wallis  Budge,  Litt.D., 
F.S.A. 

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Baynes,  M.A.  The  period  from  the  recognition  of  Chris- 
tianity by  the  state  to  the  date  when  the  Latin  sovereigns 
supplanted  the  Byzantines. 

120.  ENGLAND  UNDER  THE  TUDORS  AND  THE 
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WRONG,  M.A.  A continuation  and  development  of  Mr. 
Feiling’s  “England  Under  the  Tudors  and  the  Stuarts.” 

127.  THE  CIVILIZATION  OF  JAPAN.  By  J.  Ingram 
Bryan,  M.A.,  M.Litt.,  Ph.L.,  Extension  Lecturer  for  the 
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Japanese  civilization. 

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forces  which  caused  the  transformation. 

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Professor  of  History  at  Edinburgh  University.  Sketches 
the  growth  of  the  British  Empire  from  the  times  of  the 
early  adventurers  to  the  present  day. 

137.  POLITICAL  CONSEQUENCES  OF  THE  GREAT 
WAR.  By  Ramsay  Muir,  formerly  Professor  of  Mod- 
ern History  in  the  University  of  Manchester. 

141.  FASCISM.  By  Major  J.  S.  Barnes,  F.R.G.S.,  late 
Secretary-General  of  the  International  Center  of  Fascist 
Studies,  Lausanne. 

LITERATURE  AND  ART 

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of  the  very  few  indispensable  adjuncts  to  a Shakespearian 
Library.” — Boston  Transcript. 


27.  MODERN  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  By  G.  H. 
Mair.  From  Wyatt  and  Surrey  to  Synge  and  Yeats. 
“One  of  the  best  of  this  great  series.” — Chicago  Evening 
Post. 

31.  LANDMARKS  IN  FRENCH  LITERATURE.  By 
Lytton  Strachey,  Scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
“It  is  difBcult  to  imagine  how  a better  account  of  French 
Literature  could  be  given  in  250  pages.” — London  Times. 

38.  ARCHITECTURE.  By  Prof.  W.  R.  Lethaby.  An 

introduction  to  the  history  and  theory  of  the  art  of 
building. 

40.  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  By  L.  P.  Smith.  A 

concise  history  of  its  origin  and  development. 

45.  MEDIEVAL  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  By  W.  P. 
Ker,  Professor  of  English  Literature,  University  College, 
London.  “One  of  the  soundest  scholars.  His  style  is  ef- 
fective, simple,  yet  never  dry.” — The  Athenaeum. 

48.  GREAT  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA.  By  W.  P. 
Trent  and  John  Erskine,  Columbia  University. 

58.  THE  NEWSPAPER.  By  G.  Binney  Dibblee.  The 

first  full  account  from  the  inside  of  newspaper  organiza- 
tion as  it  exists  today. 

59.  DR.  JOHNSON  AND  HIS  CIRCLE.  By  John 
Bailey.  Johnson’s  life,  character,  works  and  friendships 
are  surveyed;  and  there  is  a notable  vindication  of  the 
“Genius  of  Boswell.” 

61.  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE  IN  LITERATURE.  By 
G.  K.  Chesterton. 

62.  PAINTERS  AND  PAINTING.  By  Sir  Frederick 
Wedmore.  With  16  half-tone  illustrations. 

64.  THE  LITERATURE  OF  GERMANY.  By  Profes- 
sor J.  G.  Robertson,  M.A.,  B.Sc. 

66.  WRITING  ENGLISH  PROSE.  By  William  T. 
Brewster,  Professor  of  English,  Columbia  University. 
“Should  be  put  into  the  hands  of  every  man  who  is  be- 
ginning to  write  and  of  every  teacher  of  English  who  has 
brains  enough  to  understand  sense.” — New  York  Sun. 

70.  ANCIENT  ART  AND  RITUAL.  By  Jane  E.  Har- 
rison, LL.D.,  D.Litt.  “One  of  the  100  most  important 
books  of  1913.” — New  York  Times  Review. 

73.  EURIPIDES  AND  HIS  AGE.  By  Gilbert  Murray, 

Regius  Professor  of  Greek,  Oxford. 


75.  SHELLEY,  GODWIN  AND  THEIR  CIRCLE.  By 
H.  N.  Brailsford.  The  influence  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion on  England. 

8i.  CHAUCER  AND  HIS  TIMES.  By  Grace  E. 

Hadow,  Lecturer  Lady  Margaret  Hall,  Oxford;  Late 
Reader,  Bryn  Mawr. 

83.  WILLIAM  MORRIS:  HIS  WORK  AND  INFLU- 
ENCE. By  A.  Clutton  Brock,  author  of  “Shelley: 
The  Man  and  the  Poet.”  William  Morris  believed  that 
the  artist  should  toil  for  love  of  his  work  rather  than  the 
gain  of  his  employer,  and  so  he  turned  from  making 
works  of  art  to  remaking  society.” 

87.  THE  RENAISSANCE.  By  Edith  Sichel,  author  of 
“Catherine  de  Medici,”  “Men  and  Women  of  the  French 
Renaissance.” 

89.  ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE.  By  The  Rt. 
Hon.  J.  M.  Robertson,  M.P.,  author  of  “Montaigne  and 
Shakespeare,”  “Modern  Humanists.” 

93.  AN  OUTLINE  OF  RUSSIAN  LITERATURE.  By 
The  Hon.  Maurice  Baring,  author  of  “The  Russian 
People,”  etc.  Tolstoi,  Tourgenieff,  Dostoieffsky,  Pushkin 
(the  father  of  Russian  Literature),  Saltykov  (the  satir- 
ist), Leskov,  and  many  other  authors. 

97.  MILTON.  By  John  Bailey. 

loi.  DANTE.  By  Jefferson  B.  Fletcher,  Columbia  Uni- 
versity. An  interpretation  of  Dante  and  his  teaching  from 
his  writings. 

106.  PATRIOTISM  IN  LITERATURE.  By  John 
Drinkwater. 

109.  MUSIC.  By  Sir  W.  H.  Hadow,  D.Mus.,  F.R.S.L., 
F.R.C.M.,  Vice-Chancellor  of  Sheffield  University. 

117.  DRAMA.  By  Ashley  Dukes.  The  nature  and  varie- 
ties of  drama  and  the  factors  that  make  up  the  theatre, 
from  dramatist  to  audience. 

132.  THE  LITERATURE  OF  JAPAN.  By  J.  Ingram 
Bryan,  M.A.,  M.Litt.,  Ph.D.,  Extension  Lecturer  for  the 
University  of  Cambridge  in  Japanese  History  and  Civili- 
zation. 

134.  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY: 
Wyatt  to  Dryden.  By  Kathleen  Campbell. 

135.  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY:  Dry- 
den to  Blake.  By  Kathleen  Campbell. 


NATURAL  SCIENCE 


9.  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  PLANTS.  By  Dr.  D.  H. 
Scott,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  President  of  the  Linnean  Society 
of  London.  The  story  of  the  development  of  flowering 
plants,  from  the  earliest  zoological  times,  unlocked  from 
technical  language. 

12.  THE  ANIMAL  WORLD.  By  Prof.  F.  W.  Gamble, 
F.R.S. 

14.  EVOLUTION.  By  Prof.  Sir  J.  Arthur  Thomson 
and  Prof.  Patrick  Geddes.  Explains  to  the  layman 
what  the  title  means  to  the  scientific  world. 

15.  INTRODUCTION  TO  MATHEMATICS.  By  Pro- 
fessor A.  N.  Whitehead,  D.Sc.,  F.R.S.,  author  of  “Uni- 
versal Algebra.” 

17.  CRIME  AND  INSANITY.  By  Dr.  C.  A.  Mercier, 
F.R.C.P.,  F.R.C.S.,  author  of  “Crime  and  Criminals,” 
etc. 

21.  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  SCIENCE.  By  Prof. 
Sir  J.  Arthur  Thomson,  LL.D.,  Science  Editor  of  the 
Home  University  Library.  For  those  unacquainted  with 
the  scientific  volumes  in  the  series  this  should  prove  an 
excellent  introduction. 

23.  ASTRONOMY.  By  A.  R.  Hinks,  Chief  Assistant  at 
the  Cambridge  Observatory.  “Decidedly  original  in  sub- 
stance, and  the  most  readable  and  informative  little  book 
on  modem  astronomy  we  have  seen  for  a long  time.” — 
Nature. 

24.  PSYCHICAL  RESEARCH.  By  Sir  W.  F.  Barrett, 
F.R.S.,  formerly  President  of  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research. 

37.  ANTHROPOLOGY.  By  R.  R.  Marett,  D.Sc., 
F.R.A.I.,  Reader  in  Social  Anthropology,  Oxford.  Seeks 
to  plot  out  and  sum  up  the  general  series  of  changes, 
bodily  and  mental,  undergone  by  man  in  the  course  of  his- 
tory. “Excellent.  So  enthusiastic,  so  clear  and  witty,  and 
so  well  adapted  to  the  general  reader  ” — American  Library 
Association  Booklist. 

41.  PSYCHOLOGY,  THE  STUDY  OF  BEHAVIOUR. 
By  Professor  William  McDougall,  F.R.S. , Reader  in 
Mental  Philosophy,  Oxford  University.  A well-digested 
summary  of  the  essentials  of  the  science  put  in  excellent 
literary  form  by  a leading  authority. 

42.  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  PHYSIOLOGY.  By  Prof. 
J.  G.  McKendrick.  A compact  statement  by  the 
Emeritus  Professor  at  Glasgow,  for  uninstmcted  readers. 


43.  MATTER  AND  ENERGY.  By  F.  Soddy,  F.R.S., 

Professor  of  Inorganic  and  Physical  Chemistry  in  the 
University  of  Oxford.  “Brilliant.  Can  hardly  be  sur- 
passed. Sure  to  attract  attention.” — New  York  Sun. 

53.  ELECTRICITY.  By  Gisbert  Kapp,  Late  Professor 
of  Electrical  Engineering,  University  of  Birmingham. 

54.  THE  MAKING  OF  THE  EARTH.  By  J.  W. 
Gregory,  F.R.S.,  Professor  of  Geology,  Glasgow  Uni- 
versity. 38  maps  and  figures.  Describes  the  origin  of  the 
earth,  the  formation  and  changes  of  its  surface  and  struc- 
ture,_ its  geological  history,  the  first  appearance  of  life, 
and  its  influence  upon  the  globe. 

56.  MAN:  A HISTORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  BODY. 

By  Sir  A.  Keith,  F.R.S.,  Hunterian  Professor,  Royal 
College  of  Surgeons  of  England.  Shows  how  the  human 
body  developed. 

63.  THE  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  LIFE.  By  Pro- 
fessor Benjamin  Moore. 

68.  DISEASE  AND  ITS  CAUSES.  By  W.  T.  Council- 
man, M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Pathology,  Harvard 
University. 

71.  PLANT  LIFE.  By  Sir  J.  B.  Farmer,  D.Sc.,  F.R.S., 

Professor  of  Botany  in  the  Imperial  College  of  Science, 
London.  This  very  fully  illustrated  volume  contains  an 
account  of  the  salient  features  of  plant  form  and  function. 

74.  NERVES.  By  David  Fraser  Harris,  M.D.,  Professor 
of  Physiology,  Dalhousie  University,  Halifax.  Explains 
in  nontechnical  language  the  place  and  powers  of  the 
nervous  system. 

85.  SEX.  By  Profs.  Sir  J.  Arthur  Thomson  and  Patrick 
Geddes,  joint  authors  of  “The  Evolution  of  Sex.” 

90.  CHEMISTRY.  By  Raphael  Meldola,  F.R.S.,  Late 
Professor  of  Chemistry,  Finsbury  Technical  College. 
Revised  by  Alexander  Findlay,  D.Sc.,  F.I.C.,  Profes- 
sor of  Chemistry  in  the  University  of  Aberdeen.  Pre- 
sents the  way  in  which  the  science  has  developed  and  the 
stage  it  has  reached. 

107.  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  STUDY  OF 
HEREDITY.  By  E.  W.  MacBride,  D.Sc.,  Professor 
of  Zoology  in  the  Imperial  College  of  Science  and  Tech- 
nology, London. 

III.  BIOLOGY.  By  Profs.  Sir  J.  Arthur  Thomson  and 
Patrick  Geddes. 


II2.  BACTERIOLOGY,  By  Prof.  Carl  H.  Browning, 
F.R.S. 

115.  MICROSCOPY.  By  Robert  M.  Neill,  Aberdeen  Uni- 
versity. Microscopic  technique  subordinated  to  results  of 
investigation  and  their  value  to  man. 

1 16.  EUGENICS.  By  Professor  A.  M.  Carr-Saunders. 
Biological  problems,  together  with  the  facts  and  theories 
of  heredity. 

1 19.  GAS  AND  GASES.  By  R.  M.  Caven,  D.Sc.,  F.I.C., 

Professor  of  Inorganic  and  Analytical  Chemistry  in  the 
Royal  Technical  College,  Glasgow.  The  chemical  and 
physical  nature  of  gases,  both  in  their  scientific  and  his- 
torical aspects. 

122.  BIRDS,  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  ORNITHOL- 
OGY. By  A.  L.  Thompson,  O.B.E.,  D.Sc.  A general 
account  of  the  characteristics,  mainly  of  habit  and  be- 
havior of  birds. 

124.  SUNSHINE  AND  HEALTH.  By  Ronald  Campbell 
Macfie,  M.B.C.M.,  LL.D.  Light  and  its  relation  to  man 
treated  scientifically. 

125.  INSECTS.  By  Frank  Balfour-Browne,  F.R.S.E., 

Professor  of  Entomology  in  the  Imperial  College  of 
Science  and  Technology,  London. 

126.  TREES.  By  Dr.  MacGregor  Skene,  D.Sc.,  F.L.S. 
Senior  Lecturer  on  Botany,  Bristol  University.  A concise 
study  of  the  classification,  history,  structure,  architecture, 
growth,  enemies,  care  and  protection  of  trees.  Forestry 
and  economics  are  also  discussed. 

138.  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  CELL.  By  David  Lands- 
borough  Thomson,  B.Sc.,  Ph.D.,  Lecturer  in  Biochem- 
istry, McGill  University. 

142.  VOLCANOES.  By  G.  W.  Tyrrell,  A.R.,  C.Sc., 
Ph.D.,  F.G.S.,  F.R.S.E.,  Lecturer  in  Geology  in  the 
University  of  Glasgow. 

PHILOSOPHY  AND  RELIGION 

35.  THE  PROBLEMS  OF  PHILOSOPHY.  By  The 
Hon.  Bertrand  Russell,  F.R.S.,  Lecturer  and  Late  Fel- 
low, Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

44.  BUDDHISM.  By  Mrs.  Rhys  Davids,  Lecturer  on 
Indian  Philosophy,  Manchester. 

46.  ENGLISH  SECTS:  A HISTORY  OF  NONCON- 
FORMITY. By  The  Rev.  W.  B.  Selbie,  Principal  of 
Mansfield  College,  Oxford. 


so.  THE  MAKING  OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 
By  B.  W.  Bacon,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  New  Tes- 
tament Criticism,  Yale.  An  authoritative  summary  of  the 
results  of  modern  critical  research  with  regard  to  the 
origins  of  the  New  Testament. 

52.  ETHICS.  By  Professor  G.  E.  Moore,  D.Litt.,  Lec- 
turer in  Moral  Science,  Cambridge.  Discusses  what  is 
right  and  what  is  wrong,  and  the  whys  and  wherefores. 

55.  MISSIONS:  THEIR  RISE  AND  DEVELOP- 
MENT. By  Mrs.  Mandell  Creighton,  author  of  “His- 
tory of  England.”  The  author  seeks  to  prove  that  mis- 
sions have  done  more  to  civilize  the  world  than  any  other 
human  agency. 

60.  COMPARATIVE  RELIGION.  By  Prof.  J.  Estlin 

Carpenter,  LL.D.  “One  of  the  few  authorities  on  this 
subject  compares  all  the  religions  to  see  what  they  have  to 
offer  on  the  great  themes  of  religion.” — Christian  Work 
and  Evangelist. 

65.  THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  OLD  TESTA- 
MENT. By  George  F.  Moore,  Professor  of  the  His- 
tory of  Religion,  Harvard  University.  “A  popular  work 
of  the  highest  order.  Will  be  profitable  to  anybody  who 
cares  enough  about  Bible  study  to  read  a serious  book  on 
the  subject.” — American  Journal  of  Theology. 

69.  A HISTORY  OF  FREEDOM  OF  THOUGHT.  By 

John  B.  Bury,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Late  Regius  Professor  of 
Modern  History  in  Cambridge  University.  Summarizes 
the  history  of  the  long  struggle  between  authority  and 
reason  and  of  the  emergence  of  the  principle  that  coercion 
of  opinion  is  a mistake. 

88.  RELIGIOUS  DEVELOPMENT  BETWEEN  OLD 
AND  NEW  TESTAMENTS.  By  The  Ven.  R.  H. 
Charles,  D.D.,  F.B.A.,  Canon  of  Westminster.  Shows 
how  religious  and  ethical  thought  between  180  b.c.  and 
100  A.D.  grew  naturally  into  that  of  the  New  Testament. 

96.  A HISTORY  OF  PHILOSOPHY.  By  Professor 
Clement  C.  J.  Webb,  F.B.A. 

130.  JESUS  OF  NAZARETH.  By  The  Rt.  Rev.  Charles 
Gore,  D.D.,  formerly  Bishop  of  Oxford. 


SOCIAL  SCIENCE 


I,  PARLIAMENT.  ITS  HISTORY,  CONSTITU- 
TION, AND  PRACTICE.  By  Sir  Courtenay  P. 
Ilbert,  G.C.B.,  K.C.S.I.,  late  Clerk  of  the  House  of 
Commons. 

5.  THE  STOCK  EXCHANGE.  By  F.  W.  Hirst,  for- 
merly Editor  of  the  London  Economist.  Reveals  to  the 
nonfinancial  mind  the  facts  about  investment,  speculation, 
and  the  other  terms  which  the  title  suggests. 

6.  IRISH  NATIONALITY.  By  Mrs.  J.  R.  Green, 
D.Litt.  A brilliant  account  of  the  genius  and  mission  of 
the  Irish  people.  “An  entrancing  work,  and  I would  ad- 
vise everyone  with  a drop  of  Irish  blood  in  his  veins  or  a 
vein  of  Irish  sympathy  in  his  heart  to  read  it.” — New 
York  Times  Review.  (Revised  Edition,  1929.) 

10.  THE  SOCIALIST  MOVEMENT.  By  The  Rt. 
Hon.  J.  Ramsay  Macdonald,  M.P. 

11.  THE  SCIENCE  OF  WEALTH.  By  J.  A.  Hobson, 
author  of  “Problems  of  Poverty.”  A study  of  the  struc- 
ture and  working  of  the  modern  business  world. 

16.  LIBERALISM.  By  Prof.  L.  T.  Hobhouse,  LL.D., 
author  of  “Democracy  and  Reaction.”  A masterly  phil- 
osophical and  historical  review  of  the  subject. 

28.  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  INDUSTRY.  By  D.  H. 
MacGregor,  Drummond  Professor  in  Political  Economy, 
University  of  Oxford.  An  outline  of  the  recent  changes 
that  have  given  us  the  present  conditions  of  the  working 
classes  and  the  principles  involved. 

29.  ELEMENTS  OF  ENGLISH  LAW.  By  W.  M. 
Geldart,  B.C.L.,  Vinerian  Professor  of  English  Law, 
Oxford.  Revised  by  Sir  William  Holdsworth,  K.C., 
D.C.L.,  LL.D.,  Vinerian  Professor  of  English  Law,  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford.  A simple  statement  of  the  basic  prin- 
ciples of  the  English  legal  system  on  which  that  of  the 
United  States  is  based. 

32.  THE  SCHOOL:  AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 
STUDY  OF  EDUCATION.  By  J.  J.  Findlay,  M.A., 

formerly  Professor  of  Education,  Manchester.  Presents 
the  history,  the  psychological  basis,  and  the  theory  of  the 
school  with  a rare  power  of  summary  and  suggestion. 

49.  ELEMENTS  OF  POLITICAL  ECONOMY.  By 
Sir  S.  J.  Chapman,  late  Professor  of  Political  Economy 
and  Dean  of  Faculty  of  Commerce  and  Administration, 
University  of  Manchester. 


77.  CO-PARTNERSHIP  AND  PROFIT-SHARING. 
By  Aneurin  Williams,  late  Chairman,  Executive  Com- 
mittee, International  Co-operative  Alliance,  etc.  Explains 
the  various  types  of  co-partnership  and  profit-sharing,  and 
gives  details  of  the  arrangements  now  in  force  in  many  of 
the  great  industries. 

79.  UNEMPLOYMENT.  By  A.  C.  Pigou,  M.A.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Political  Economy  at  Cambridge.  The  meaning, 
measurement,  distribution  and  effects  of  unemployment, 
its  relation  to  wages,  trade  fluctuations  and  disputes,  and 
some  proposals  of  remedy  or  relief. 

80.  COMMON  SENSE  IN  LAW.  By  Prof.  Sir  Paul 
Vinogradoff,  D.C.L.,  LL.D.  Social  and  Legal  Rules — 
Legal  Rights  and  Duties — Facts  and  Acts  in  Law — Legis- 
lation— Custom — Judicial  Precedents — Equity — The  Law 
of  Nature. 

91.  THE  NEGRO.  By  W.  E.  Burghardt  DuBois,  author 
of  “Soiffs  of  Black  Folks,”  etc.  A history  of  the  black 
man  in  Africa,  America  and  elsewhere. 

98.  POLITICAL  THOUGHT:  FROM  HERBERT 
SPENCER  TO  THE  PRESENT  DAY.  By  Pro- 
fessor Ernest  Barker,  D.Litt.,  LL.D. 

99.  POLITICAL  THOUGHT:  THE  UTILITARIANS. 
FROM  BENTHAM  TO  J.  S.  MILL.  By  Professor 
William  L.  Davidson,  LL.D. 

103.  ENGLISH  POLITICAL  THOUGHT.  From  Locke 
to  Bentham.  By  Harold  J.  Laski,  Professor  of  Politi- 
cal Science  in  the  London  School  of  Economics. 

1 13.  ADVERTISING.  By  Sir  Charles  Higham. 

118.  BANKING.  By  Dr.  Walter  Leaf,  late  President,  In- 
stitute of  Bankers ; President,  International  Chamber  of 
Commerce.  The  elaborate  machinery  of  the  financing  of 
industry. 

123.  COMMUNISM.  By  Harold  J.  Laski,  Professor  of 
Political  Science  at  the  University  of  London.  The  author 
tries  to  state  the  communist  “theses”  in  such  a way  that 
even  its  advocates  will  recognize  that  an  opponent  can 
summarize  them  fairly. 

131.  INDUSTRIAL  PSYCHOLOGY.  Edited  by  Dr. 
Charles  S.  Myers,  G.B.E.,  F.R.S.,  Director  of  the  Na- 
tional Institute  of  Industrial  Psychology  in  England.  The 
only  comprehensive  study  of  the  human  factor  in  industry. 

133.  THE  GROWTH  OF  INTERNATIONAL 
THOUGHT.  By  F.  Melian  Stawell. 


139-  LIQUOR  CONTROL.  By  George  E.  G.  Catlin. 
An  impartial  and  comprehensive  study  of  the  subject. 

140.  RACES  OF  AFRICA.  By  C.  G.  Seligman,  F.R.C.P., 
F.R.S. 


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